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A TALE. 


TEANSLATED PEOM THE FEENOH. 

kJou* ^- 





NEW YORK : 

P. O’SHEA, PUBLISHEK, 
27 Barclay Street. 


1868. 




/ 


><? 



Enteebd according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S68, 

BY P. O’SHEA, 

In the Clerk’s OflSce of the District Court of the United States, for 
- the Southern District of New York. 


Miaisroisr. 


I. 

Why do I speak again of the beloved 
flowers, of the verdant shades, and of the 
boundless horizon ? Why ? It is because my 
thoughts continually wander through the lovely 
scenes of this blessed land. It is there only 
that I forget the stern realities of life, and that 
I find again memories at once pure and 
sweet. 

The lark always sings the same song, and 
God demands of him no other. A tree can 
yield but the one fruit, and the eglantine 
never offers, on the pathside, other than its 
simple wild flowers. Let me then fly from 
the impure atmospliere of tlie city ; come with 
me, and drink in the sweet air of the woods, 
the hills, and the meadows ; and there let me 
tell you the legend of the beautiful land of my 
dreams. 


6 


mGNON. 


In the finest street of Saint Germain, in its 
airy quarter, which borders the forest, an ele- 
gant and graceful portico attracts the atten- 
tion of the passer-by. It is the entrance of 
the chapel of the convent of the Augustinians, 
that peaceful retreat where women of the 
world find a sweet and tranquil hospitality, 
and where the good nuns consecrate their 
lives to the education of young girls. 

Its proximity to Paris, the admirable site of 
the little town, the really maternal solicitude 
of the nuns, everything contributes to make 
this peaceful retreat a desirable home for the 
daughters of those mothers w^ho fear for their 
young minds the elegance and dissipation of 
the fashionable boarding-schools of Paris. 

An outer court of severe aspect, guarded by 
a portress of still severer mien, is surrounded 
by the buildings of the establishment ; at the 
extremity of this court a door opens into the 
parlor, another into the apartments of the Su- 
perior and into the reception rooms. 

A second court is surrounded with simple 
but thoroughly clean buildings, which contain 
on the first floor the refectories and recreation 
rooms ; on the second, the class-rooms, and on 
the third the dormitories. This vast court is 


LITGNON. 


7 


adorned with large plantains, with leafy 
branches, under whose splendid shade joyous 
youth indulges in its games and frolics. 

In the rear is a fine and very shady orchard, 
which is called the garden of the ladies, and 
where the young boarders are only allowed to 
enter on extraordinary occasions. 

During the hours of study a profound 
silence reigns throughout this vast establish- 
ment. When the windows are open there can 
be faintly heard the youthful voice of some 
young girl reading her task, or the grave and 
gentle reproof of a nun. But when the studies 
of the day are finished, and when the first 
stroke of the clock summons the scholars to 
evening recreation, it is a charming sight from 
the large window of the parlor to see them 
pour forth from every door, like bees who 
rush, humming, from the hive. 

It is at first a gentle murmur, like that of a 
running rivulet ; then the sound increases and 
redoubles, until it finally becomes the flow of 
a rushing torrent, which throws to the wind 
its snowy foam. 

Oh, youth, fertile and inexhaustible source 
of beauty, grace, force, and life ! I cannot 
avoid following and contemplating you, even 


8 


MIGNON. 


as I watch each Spring, with the same joy 
and same astonishment, the budding flower. 

Oh, youth, you emanate fresh and pure from 
the hand of God I You recall to me my noble 
origin, you cause me to remember that I must 
soon return to enjoy that eternal youth and 
those sublime beauties of which your limpid 
eye seems but the reflection. 

Oh, youth, I listen to your soft murmur as 
to that of the running stream which glides 
thro’ the Minnesota, and which will become, 
further on, the majestic river, the moving 
highway which conducts powerful vessels on- 
ward to the sea. 

Oh, youth, I love you, because you are 
beautiful ; I love you, and at the same time 
pity you, tor your hour of sufiering is yet to 
come. When my task is flnished, then will 
yours begin ; when I sleep peacefully beneath 
the waving grass, it will be you, youth, which 
will bear the burden of life. All ye who have 
not closed your hearts to sincerity, and who 
forget not, in the commotion of a superficial 
life, the impenetrable mystery of destiny, come 
and behold with me this charming and inno- 
cent scene. Come, and touch the mysterious 
links of the future. 


MIGNON. 


9 


The joyous band scatters itself under the 
tall plantains, forming here in couples, there 
in groups. Here, it is a quiet tableau which 
recalls the reveries of Albano or the dolcefar 
niente of Winterhalter ; there, it is an animat- 
ed discussion, sparkling with bursts of laugh- 
ter ; farther on, a giddy cortege^ which neither 
knows from whence it comes, or whither it 
goes, which runs for the sake of running, which 
shouts for the sake of shouting^ which skips 
about, developing the flexible limbs, confined 
by long study, and which talks to hear the 
voice that has so long been kept silent. Aside^ 
two friends gravely deliberate over trifles 
which appear to them of vast importance ; the 
more serious converse with the nuns, who easily 
quiet with word or gesture this surging sea of 
life ; others cultivate with contentment their 
modest garden. One should see them holding 
up with one hand the flowing dress, and bend- 
ing forward, watering with the other their 
fragile rose-bush ! One should see them bend- 
ing their supple and slender lorins to catch the 
ball or throw the shuttlecock ! Is not every- 
thing charming and graceful at this age ? And 
the secret of this charm is that it ignores its 
own existence. 


10 


MIGNON. 


A touching custom requires that every 
younger child shall be under the protection of 
a larger and older companion ; this engenders 
a sentiment of respect and obedience on the 
one hand, and of protection and solicitude on 
the other. The little one calls this companion 
mother. The latter may sometimes be fifteen 
years of age, and is responsible for the per- 
sonal appearance and progress of h.QV ^protegee ; 
it is the first apprenticeship of life. As the 
fiower foretells the fruit, so youth foretells the 
future, and on each brow we can almost read 
and predict a destiny. This one who consoles 
the weeping child will, doubtless, become a 
tender mother. That one who chides and ex- 
hibits impatience with her pupil, will, perhaps, 
fail in her attempts to do too much. Will she 
be a little saint, who holds her rosary under 
the statue of the Virgin, and who appears al- 
ready to think of naught but heaven ? A 
brunette, of superb beauty, domineers over her 
companions, and seems to dream of the dan- 
gerous homage which awaits her entry into 
the world, while a languishing blonde turns 
her blue eyes towards the azure heavens and 
appears to read therein a complete English 
romance. 


MIGNON. 


11 


Here is one aloof from the throng, sickly and 
awkward, having neither the attractions of the 
countenance nor those of the mind ; poor ne- 
glected creature, she already comprehends the 
inferiority which her misfortune entails upon 
her, and already endures the hard apprentice- 
ship of suffering. 

Thus the inequality is felt beneath the 
equality of uniform instruction. Thus, under 
the lustre of these flowers of youth one already 
recognizes a little world which lives, which 
palpitates, and which, even before the fruit is 
developed, is stung to the heart by the worm 
which is seen crawling on the stem. 

It is there that the gentle influence of the wise 
instructress is felt. A prudent hand leads 
back the errant reed, or softens and mitigates 
the evil which has been done. A word calms 
the too ardent zeal, awakens the slumbering 
sentiment, and causes the chords of the heart 
to vibrate. It is the living image of conscience 
which recalls unceasingly to these young and 
tender natures, by its precepts and examples, 
by its love and its effusion, that divine voice 
which every one can hear from the depths of 
his soul. Thus, egotism, source of evil and 
destruction, -is conquered by charity, fertile 
source of good and of life. 


12 


MIGNON. 


The startling sound ot a bell suddenly stops 
these noisy games, these impetuous movements? 
this commotion, hushes these piercing voices, 
and silences the merry laughter. A profound 
stillness succeeds this tumult, and the long 
files of pupils, under the supervision of their 
watchful guardians, enter with subdued steps 
t-he halls of the refectory for their evening 
meal. 


ariGNON. 


13 


II. 

• 

It is the hour at which the Superior, sur- 
rounded by the ladies of the establishment, re- 
ceives from them in the parlor the reports of 
the studies and events of the day. A descrip- 
tion of this parlor would present but little un- 
usual ; for in making an inventory of this large 
apartment one would only note the necessary 
piano, the invariable framed drawings, a very 
ordinary painting of the Virgin in the place 
of honor, and on the mantlepiece some really 
beautiful artificial flowers, executed by the 
dexterous fingers of the scholars, the whole 
forming, in fact, a furniture both simple and 
severe, onlj^j^ be remarked for its scrupu- 
lous neatness. Without dwelling upon details 
of so little interest, we prefer to call the atten- 
tion of the reader to the personages gathered 
around one of the windows of the garden. 

There, seated in an arm-chair, beside a small 
work-table, the Superior receives, irom three 
nuns standing before her, the reports of the 
day. 

She is a person of middle age, with a coun- 


14 


MIGNON. 


tenance at once grave and gentle; her fine 
features are framed in the white bands, which 
throw a slight shadow over her half-veiled 
brow, whilst the heavy drapery of her black 
dress falls in majestic folds to the ground. 
One would imagine from the expression of her 
teyes that she had known trouble and sorrow 
in her youth, were it not that the calmness and 
serenity of her brow indicated a character su- 
perior to the trials of life. 

When the rebellious heart is conquered and 
subdued, when the sacrifice is accomplished, 
when one’s only reckoning is with heaven, how 
all is transformed and elevated ! 'No more 
yielding, no more struggling, no more vain 
efforts, no more aspirations after intangible 
riches. The emancipated soul, grown beneath 
the eye of G-od, seeks only to pour out to all 
that surround it that divine treasure of charity 
and love, with which it overflows. 

What does she desire, what does she seek, 
this noble woman, in dividing her heart 
amongst these little beings confided to her 
care ? Is it distinction ? She is the equal of 
her companions. Is it efiect? Her heavy 
garment is as common as that of her sisters. 
Is it gain ? She has renounced all her wealth 


MIGNON. 


15 


and a brilliant future to live in cloistered sim- 
plicity. Is it the approbation of the world ? 
Her life is hidden and secluded. Is it repose ? 
She will devote the rest of her strength to this 
difficult task. Is it gratitude ? These young 
birds will take flight as soon as their wings 
are able to bear them, and perhaps never think 
of the hospitable nest which has sheltered 
them. Is it the remembrance of those who 
will survive her ? A cross of wood on a grassy 
mound will not even tell her name. 

Her desires are to listen to the divine voice, 
to respond to the wishes of Providence, to re- 
place the absent mother, to shelter beneath 
her wing these destinies, to employ the sur- 
plus of the rich in educating the children of 
the poor, for orphans also find an asylum be- 
neath this sacred roof, and receive, in a separ- 
ate apartment, simple and practical instruc- 
tion, in keeping with the modest position 
which awaits them in active life. 

It is to alleviate and console every misery, 
for the door is open to the indigent, and the 
experience of her worthy companions places 
at the disposal of the invalid the science of 
herbs, the treasure which generous nature has 
placed beneath the shade of the forest. In a 


16 


MIGNON. 


word, her- desires are to do good. But it is uot 
sadness that accompanies these privations, it is 
not severity which teaches and enforces duty, 
it is not austerity and intolerance which in- 
vites these young hearts to divine love. 

The Savior, model of all suffering, exhibited 
only to those around him a loving and serene 
countenance, when he said : “ Love one an- 
other,” and the gracious image of the Virgin, 
smiling on humanity, is the symbol of gentle- 
ness and charity. 

The Superior remembers that she is jiot 
forming novices for a cloister, but young girls 
for the world. Far from exerting an influence 
which would alienate them from their families 
or hearth-stones, it was necessary to initiate 
them, not in the spiritual existence, which is 
the lot of a chosen few, but in the world of 
the living, which one cannot condemn, since, 
notwithstanding its vicissitudes and errors, it 
is perpetuated according to the secret views of 
Providence. 

She wished her children, on leaving her 
maternal guidance, to be respectful and tender 
daughters, dutiful wives, distinguished women, 
and attentive and devoted motliers. She did 
not despise those accomplishments which give 


MIGNON. 


17 


a charm and attraction to private life ; the 
arts, interpreters and poets of nature, seemed 
to her another homage rendered to the Divin- 
ity. Sometimes even ideal beauty appeared 
to her to be a gift of Heaven, for she saw 
therein the reflection of a spotless soul. 

You have heard satirists pursue with their 
laughter, doubts, and contempt, these lives ot 
modesty and sacrifice ; they complain that the 
world is too crowded, that the desire to be 
noted, to be conspicuous, and the superfluity 
of luxury, render life difficult, and prepare for 
us inevitable disasters ; but they do not permit 
the humble to retire, to hide themselves in 
the shade, there to prepare the remedy for 
gnawing selfishness to heal the wounds of 
the battle of life, and to convert the sinner. 


18 


MIGNON. 


III. 

A STEPMOTHET5. 

While these pious women are holding their 
maternal counsel, there is suddenly heard an 
uncommon noise at the entrance. An elegant 
and emblazoned equipage has drawn up before 
the convent of the Augustinians ; the door is 
struck with repeated blows, which the old por- 
tress, after some hesitation, decides on opening, 
and explains as well as possible that the rule of 
the establishment forbids admission at so late 
an hour. A shrill voice is heard, however, 
from the carriage, replying with vivacity. 

The poor portress is powerless ; her feeble 
arm is pushed aside, giving her little time to 
ring the bell of warning, when the footmen 
force the guard, and an imposing person, in 
sumptuo^is toilette, very much animated by 
the resistance offered, crosses the court, accom- 
panied by a young girl, simply dressed and 
veiled, who, in her turn, is followed by a maid, 


MIGNON. 


19 


carrying boxes; two tall footmen, in showy 
livery, laden with trunks and packages, bring 
Tip the rear. 

The door of the parlor is violently thrown 
open by the chasseur in fantastic cockade, and 
it was really a strange contrast between this 
agitated group entering violently into this 
peaceful retreat, and the perfect calm with 
which the Superior prepared to receive her 
visitors, and to reply to their questions. 

It seemed the wave which expires, murmur- 
ing, on the golden sand. It was the world 
vibrating upon the threshold of religion. 

The lady was, if not intimidated, at least 
surprised by the calm and imposing aspect of 
this house of refuge, by the attitude and grave 
physiognomy of the persons before her, and by 
the coldness of the astonished glances directed 
towards her ; she motioned, however, to her 
maid to bring a chair, and leaving at the end 
of the room the young girl and the domestics, 
she installed herself without further ceremony, 
and commenced, as follows : 

“ It must be confessed, inadame,” said she, 
casting a look of contempt on the modest fur- 
niture of the room, “ that your attendants are 
none too polite. I leave my mansion, I enter 


20 


MIGNON. 


mj carriage in haste, I kill my horses to see 
you this evening, for I leave to morrow for my 
chateau^ and your porti’ess positively forbids 
my entrance. If it is by your order, that is 
certainly not the way to increase your patron- 
age, madame, and when people have to deal 
with the public, it would be as well, perhaps, 
were they a little more at its disposition. How 
ever, I have but few words to say, and will 
not keep you long from your occupations. 1 
occupy my chateau a part of the year only, 
and have, before my departure, to attend to 
the installation of this young person, of whom 
I am the stepmother. It does not suit me to 
place her in a Parisian boarding-school, because 
I cannot dispose of her during the numerous 
vacations which constantly occur. I have been 
informed that the rules of your house are very 
severe, the scholars going out very rarely ; in 
fact, being nearly cloistered. These are my 
reasons for giving you the preference. 

“ I confide, therefore, this young person to 
you, advising you to overlook nothing, for she 
is very obstinate and fond of having her own 
way. You might be deceived by her angelic 
look and soft voice, but you will soon dis- 
cover, like m^rgelf, how much it is worth. Be- 


MIGNON. 


21 


sides, that is your profession, and you are paid 
to correct these rebellious natures. As for 
myself, I wash my hands of the whole aifair; 
I have young children of my own, who claim 
all my tenderness, and I do not wish to have 
such an example before them. 1 am a mother, 
madame, and do not know whether you can 
understand me.” 

Then casting a pitiful look on her step- 
daughter, after this violent tirade, she spread 
out the folds of her immeasurable dress, sur- 
veying herself with infinite satisfaction. She 
was a large woman, who had not renounced 
all pretentions to beauty, and would not have 
been devoid of some attraction had not a nose 
too hooked, eyes too close together, a look of a 
vulture, and curls, resembling ringlets of horse- 
hair, given a hardness to her physiognomy, 
which her voice, gestures, and words but con- 
firmed. 

But, notwithstanding the fullness of this 
rustling silk, notwithstanding these luxurious 
liveries, is it, indeed, a lady with domineering 
voice, and with this look of assurance which 
never quails ? !No, thank Heaven ! A fash- 
ionable woman of the higher class is rarely 
heard to say my carriage, my horses, my cha- 


22 


MIGNON. 


teau, and my servants. A well-bred woman, 
if she wishes to deserve this qualification, never 
forces the doors ; she is simple, gentle, and po- 
lite with all, and particularly with the hum- 
ble. Thereby one can always recognize true 
distinction, and true nobility. 

It has already been truly said : “ True aris- 
tocracy has nothing to gain, nothing to com- 
bat with; it is calm, relying solely on its 
birth, its merit, and its fortune.” 

In our days aristocracy of talent is equal to 
that of birth, and it is but just ; it is a nobility 
just beginning, and the high position awarded 
to genius is undisputed and uncontested even 
in our frivolous society. The pen, the sword, 
the fine arts, and even industry give coats 
of arms, and in the most noble of faubourgs 
a great poei is worth a Montmorency. But 
what can be said of this false aristocracy, of 
monied merchants and rich speculators, who, 
not content with its enjoyment, wish for its 
money to take rank in the most select society, 
and purchase the escutcheon as it would meat 
and drink ? They resemble actors who have 
barely had time to put on the coats of mar- 
quises, etc., and to put on the rouge, but who 
have not learned their rdles.^ and what is more, 


MIGNON. 


23 


never will know them. One should also hear 
them improvise. What blunders ! How many 
entrees lost on the worldly stage ! ' With the 
money they have amassed, on the green cloth, 
or elsewhere, they buy chateaux^ horses, and 
friends, but they cannot buy the nobility of 
heart wliich is wanting.) Their sumptuous 
banquets, their splendid entertainments group 
around them a crowd of adventurers, parasites, 
and claqueurs^ but the dress-circle judges them 
by an imperceptible smile, which they well 
understand. They feel that their superiority 
of a day is disputed by this disdainful silence, 
and it is to try and establish it without contro- 
versy in the eyes of the world that they throw 
themselves into the exageration of a luxury as 
boundless as it is ridiculous. 

She understood all that, the experienced 
Superior, who lived on the limits of the world, 
as the beacon shines on the limits of the storm. 
She understood with a glance the value of this 
assurance, she well imagined to whom she had 
to reply, which she accordingly did : 

“ I admit, madame, all the superiority which 
your position and fortune can give you over the 
poor portress of a convent, but she only fulfilled 
her duty in refusing an entrance after seven 


24 


MIGNON. 


o’clock, and be kind enough to excuse her; 
were I doing my duty, I should also refuse to 
listen to you, and should beg you to retire, for 
the rule of the house is absolute ; but I do not 
wish, madame, that you should have incom- 
moded yourself uselessly. Be kind enough to 
dismiss your servants, and in the presence of 
mademoiselle, your stepdaughter, I will have 
the honor of replying to you.” And with a 
look, rather than with a gesture, she dismissed 
the footman and the waiting-maid. 

When they were gone, and there remained 
only the nuns, the haughty visitor and her 
timid stepdaughter, standing in the back- 
ground, with her veil down, the Superior re- 
sumed : 

‘‘ Madame, I think you deceive yourself with 
regard to the character and rules of our house, 
which, however, you are at liberty to do. Our 
children are treated with maternal tenderness, 
punishments are rare, and we have proved it 
to be the best course. I am sorry to hear that 
you desire severe treatment for mademoiselle, 
but you have not been well directed. It is not 
for me to persuade you, that softness and 
friendship are more likely to recall to the 
path of duty than the rigors of a house of cor- 


MTGNON. 


25 


rection. It is better to tell vou plainly that 
we cannot accept the young person whom yon 
present. 

“ I could also give another reason : from the 
information you have given us of her charac- 
ter and antecedents (I regret to say it before 
her), we have no desire to receive her into the 
flock which is confided to us ; she is already 
grown ; at her age her habits are fixed, obe- 
dience becomes difiicult, and our children, like 
your own, madame, should have but good ex- 
amples before their eyes. Be kind enough, 
therefore, to excuse our inability to appreciate 
your confidence.” 

The young girl put her hands to her eyes, 
while the lady, rising abruptly, resumed, with 
great irritation : 

“ This is something quite surprising ; I must 
confess I did not expect to find such stubborn- 
ness under the veil of a nun ! Excuse me, 
madame, but it will be, perhaps, less difiicult 
for you to refuse this novice, who will 
soon make, under your directions, all the genu- 
flections you desire ; but here is the letter of a 
prelate, which will have more weight than my 
words. I did well to procure it. I thought, 
however, that your interest would be a suffi- 


26 


MIGNON. 


cient motive for you to decide in my favor 
for altliougli you act for the greater glory of 
God, your price of tuition is none tlie more 
reasonable ; of this I have been well in- 
formed.” 

“ Spare us, madame,” said the Superior, re- 
jecting by a gesture the open letter which was 
offered her ; “ these are words to which we are 
unable to reply, and, as for this letter, I do 
not wish to see it even, after what I have 
heard.” 

“ I am sorry for you,” said the lady, paling 
with anger. “ You may have occasion to re- 
gret this, for I shall soon make known in 
higher quarters the manner in which you treat 
your betters.” 

And taking her stepdaughter by the arm, 
she forced her to the door, looking disdainfully 
at the nuns. The young girl gently extricated 
herself from her grasp, advanced towards the 
Superior, raised her veil, and kneeling before 
her, said : 

“ Oh, madame, have pity !” 

Her wearied form seemed to bend with a 
natural grace, like the reed beneath the blasts 
of the wind. The soft light of the setting 
sun, shaded by the foliage of the plantains. 


MIGNON. 


27 


spread itself over this brow of sixteen Sum- 
mers, and faded away like a halo of many 
rays. The Superior paused, speechless, at the 
sight of such angelic beauty, of a sweetness 
and submission which appeared so sincere, an d 
at the tone of a voice so pure and sympathetic. 
Are there not physiognomies which appear 
to reflect the entire soul, and which cannot 
deceive ? Are there not ideal and privileged 
natures whicn shine radiantly thro’ their deli- 
cate and ethereal envelope ? 

The Superior maintained silence for some 
time, casting her penetrating glance into the 
limpid eyes of the poor child, who appeared 
very uneasy at this examination ; then turning 
towards her companions, she appeared to con- 
sult them, and finally, raising her eyes slowly 
to the haughty countenance of the lady, she 
exclaimed, to herself : 

“ My God, is it thy warning voice that tells 
me here is, perhaps, a victim? And dost thou 
place her in my arms? Dost thou. Lord, 
order me to succor an innocent creature ?” 

And again she glanced towards the silent 
and kneeling girl, who, seeing this doubt, felt 
a faint hope spring up in her heart, and tak- 
ing her venerable hand in hers, she impressed 


28 


MIGNON. 


upon it a respectful kiss, and let fall a burning 
tear. 

“ Have pity on me,” said sbe again, in a 
low tone. 

At the moving accent of this stifled voice, at 
the contact of this little supplicating hand, the 
Superior rose, more troubled than she was 
willing to appear. 

“ Madame,” said she, raising up the young 
girl, “ we have shown you that we follow the 
rules which our responsibility imposes upon 
us ; threats cannot change our resolutions, but 
we are always ready to allow ourselves to be 
influenced by a supplication which appears 
sincere ; the grief of a poor child is well calcu- 
lated to touch us and give us some hope. Be 
kind enough, therefore, madam, to forget what 
I may have said of too absolute a nature, and 
rely upon all the care which we will take of 
your stepdaughter. W e will make at least the 
trial, and hope that she will reciprocate our 
friendship by an exemplary conduct.” 

“ I knew you would consent to it at last,” 
said the lady ; “ not that I attribute this 
cliange entirely to the bearing of this Agnes, 
but the letter which you would not look at 
has, perhaps, had its eflect. One should not 


MIGNON. 


29 


play into the hands of rivals by a conduct too 
scrupulous, should they 

The Superior smothered her indignation, 
and gently replied : 

“ You mistake, madame, in attributing to a 
motive so base the interest which we wish to 
take in jowv protegee. We give you the proof 
of your error by taking her on trial for the 
first year without any remuneration for our 
pains. You will only be called upon to furnish 
the trousseau and uniform.” 

‘‘Madame, I do not ask for charity,” said 
the lady, laying a roll of gold pieces on the 
table. “ Let each one live by his profession ; 
here is for the first year, and here is the ad- 
dress of my lawyer, with whom you will cor- 
respond for all necessary expenses.” 

“It is with the desire to oblige you, 
madame, that I liave submitted to many bitter 
words,” said the Superior, “ but you will ex- 
cuse, madame, my not being able to remain 
any longer ; other occupations claim my pres- 
ence. Here is the sister stewardess, who will 
receive from you the necessary information, 
and who will give you the explanations you 
may desire ; and you, my sister,” said she, 
turning to another nun, “ take charge of this 


30 


MIGNON. 


child, and conduct her to her chamber, when 
she will have taken leave of madarae.” 

And bowing gracefully, she retired. 

When the sister stewardess had received the 
necessary instructions, the young girl advanced 
timidly towards her stepmother, but the latter 
merely touched her hand. 

‘‘ One must avoid moving scenes,” said 
she, ironically, holding her at a distance, then 
retiring without saluting any one, she called 
her servants, and the carriage rolled off with 
a flourish, and soon a perfect quiet succeeded 
to these agitations, so uncommon beneath the 
sacred roof of the Augustinians. 


MIONON. 


31 


lY. 

MIGNON. 

The next day the crowd of young scholars 
played under the plantains in the fresh air of 
the morning. Nothing was talked of among 
the noisy groups but the arrival of the new 
companion, the liveried carriage, the toilette of 
the grand lady, and the cockade of the tall 
footman. The old portress, who had taken 
the vow of chastity, had certainly not taken 
that of silence; she had talked of the great 
events of the day before, of the great battle 
she had fought, and of her glorious defeat ; all 
was commented upon and repeated by an hun- 
dred tongues. 

A nun, who was considered better informed, 
was soon surrounded. 

“What is her name?” cried they, from 
every side. 

“Her name, my children, I do not yet 
know,” said the nun, gently, making a gesture 
with her hand to quiet this tumult, “ but I 


32 


MIGNON. 


saw her yesterday with madame, and she looks 
very mignon {charming^ 

“ Mignon ! Mignon !” repeated all the chil- 
dren, skipping around the place, then rushing 
to carry the news, which soon went the rounds 
of the vast court. 

The name of Mignon was in every laughing 
mouth. The favorite parrot, enthroned on his 
mahogany perch in the parlor portico (and 
what convent is without its parrot or paro- 
quet?) did not fail to remember the name 
which it heard thus repeated from every quar- 
ter ; and when the Superior appeared at the 
top of the stairs, leading by the hand the 
young girl, whom we have scarcely seen 
through the dim twilight, the pretty parrot, 
swinging and twisting on his frail perch, flew 
on the shoulder of the Superior, and repeated, 
in a clear and distinct voice : 

“ Mignon ! Mignon !” 

“ Yes, it is Mignon,” repeated the children, 
lumping and clapping their hands. And the 
name was really destined to become that ol 
the young scholar. 

“ My sister,” said the Superior, to one ot 
the nuns who approached her, “ her name is 
the same as mine, Theresa, and to avoid confu- 


MIGNON. 


33 


sion, we shall call her by some other, accord- 
ing to our custom.” 

“ Mignon !” said the parrot, in a caressing 
voice. 

‘‘ Mignon ! Mignon !” exclaimed the chil- 
dren, looking at the young girl, who stood 
calm and smiling on the top of the steps, 
holding the protecting hand of the Superior. 

‘‘ Well, my child!” said the latter, laughing, 
and looking at Theresa with kindness, ‘‘ your 
name is evidently Mignon ! You see here lit- 
tle hearts which ask only to love you.” 

It must be confessed that the good nun, the 
children, the parrot, and the winds of the air, 
in repeating the name of Mignon, truly ex- 
pressed the word already idealized by poetry 
and art, and which best described her beauti- 
ful nature. Have you, in a warm Summer’s 
evening culled, by the roadside, a branch of 
forest roses, bruised and beaten by the rain, 
battered by the storm, and wilted by the heat 
of the day ? The wounded stem is drooping 
and faded, when, through pity, you put it at 
night in a glass of pure water. And the next 
day, when you awake, have yon noticed it? 
Its white petals gaze smilingly on you, and in 
the center of each flashes a golden drop, crown- 


34 


MIGNON. 


ed with its luminous rajs of light ; the buds 
which blossomed in the night, opening into 
life, unfold themselves, while its green and 
vigorous stem is developed, laden with its 
diamond drops ; a subtle and penetrating per- 
fume arising from the cup and from each 
young bud, and even from the stalk of the 
tender plant. Such was Mignon. She was 
the drooping branch gathered in the evening 
by the good nuns, and was already reviving in 
a more genial atmosphere. And the trace of 
the drops of the storm was still seen on her 
features as pure as the rose of the forest. 

The short and awkward garment of the day 
before had been replaced by the long uniform 
dress, which left her slender figure unconfined, 
and gave to her carriage all its natural ele- 
gance. Her heavy bonnet, with its green veil, 
had disappeared, and showers of brown curls, 
gilded by the rays of the morning sun, clus- 
tered round her head, and waving on her ala- 
baster-like forehead, were gathered behind in 
a heavy tress, and fell by their own weight, 
as is often seen in the profiles of Achaian 
medals. 

It was not delicacy and regularity of fea- 
tures, perfect elegance of figure, finely proper- 


MIGNON. 


35 


tioned extremities, and easy, graceful carriage, 
which have furnished an irreproachable model 
to the sculptor, and who would have been 
able to study and appreciate this charming 
countenance, thus posed, as on a pedestal, at 
the top of the garden steps. Ko, this was not 
the secret of the impression which Mignon left 
behind her, as the vervain leaves its perfume 
on the winds. It was the expression of this 
beautiful countenance, it was the unconcealed 
and unveiled thought which shone from those 
large blue eyes, idealized by Grenge, the 
ethereal spirit which breathed from those smil- 
ing lips ; it was the soul which palpitated to 
the extremity of her small hands, stretched 
forward towards her new companions ; it was 
love, pure and boundless love, which filled this 
rare and lovely nature, and penetrated by its 
powerful charm to the bottom of these young 
hearts. But is it proper to place the beauty 
of thought above the attractions of the figure ? 
If the narrator were reproached with invent- 
ing and uniting every perfection, every charm 
of the ideal on the brow of a child, we would 
say that it is the privilege, if not the mission 
of art, to dream of and to celebrate this extra- 
ordinary nature, which relieves one from the 


36 


MIGNON. 


sad realities with which innocent eyes are so 
often offended. Have we not seen enough of 
these truthful portraits, whose horrible nudity 
the poet and the artist have spread out before 
us? There is an instrument which repro- 
duces, like a mirror, the features of the face, 
but why does it often give to tlie most beauti- 
ful countenance but a lifeless mask or an 
afflicting reality ? Because it only reflects the 
matter. The writer who reproduces, without 
either praise or blame, pictures from which we 
turn our eyes, does he not descend to the rdle 
of a vulgar instrument ? While elementary 
nature hides her ruins under flowers, and 
shows us an ever new and living beauty, he, 
the poet of reality, exhumes lifeless corpses, he 
makes us touch and count the worms which 
crawl in this corruption, and never remembers 
even the departed soul. 

Let us fly from these repulsive scenes. Let 
us seek consolation in the souvenirs of a re- 
fined nature. Let us bless the divine beauty 
which shines through the moral loveliness. 
Let us raise ourselves towards heaven by the 
contemplation of this gentle being, which 
seems to descend from its space, and let us lis- 
ten to this voice which has preserved the ac- 


MIGNON. 


37 


cents of the celestial choirs. ISTotwithstanding 
the corruptions of taste, notwithstanding the 
vulgar instincts of the masses, what are the 
images which speak to every heart? And 
which linger longest in the memories? They 
are the ideal conceptions in which the soul 
has absorbed and extinguished the material. 
They are a Beatrice of Dante, a Madonna of 
Murillo, a Mignon^ aspiring to heaven, of 
Ary Schaeffer, a divine angel of Paul Dela- 
roche ; natures almost celestial, which elevate 
our minds and free us by thought from the 
weight of years and earthly servitude. 

Pardon, then, my sweet Mignon, her beauty, 
her grace, her infinite charm, her irresistible 
prestige / let her descend the steps as the white- 
winged angel descended the ladder of Jacob; 
let this gentle vision mingle in the groups of 
the living, and thrill each young heart, that 
already acknowledges the influence of her look ; 
let this ray of heaven pierce though the shade 
of the plantains in the vapory mist of the 
morning. 

Mignon tendered her beautiful forehead to 
the Superior, who kissed it, and gaily descend- 
ed the steps of the portico, placing her little 
hand on her heart. 


38 


MIGNON. 


“ Thank you,” said she, “ I will love yon all 
as my sisters.” 

And giving her hand to the elder ones, she 
kissed the foreheads of the younger children, 
while the smallest clung to her dress waiting 
for their turn, crying : 

‘‘ And I, Mignon ! And I, Mignon !” 

The nuns gathered together, aside, and ob- 
served, with emotion, this scene, so natural 
and true, at the same time so interesting. 

She had, then, suffered much, this afflicted 
child, who looked with joy on those high walls, 
this dense shade, these strange faces, and who 
already loved this place of refuge, which, to 
more than one new comer, bore the sadness of 
a prison or a tomb. 

What, Mignon, have you already listened 
to deceitful tongues, have you detected the 
perfidy of a look, have you been threatened 
by some dark treason, to think yourself safe 
in this retreat? To listen with delight to 
these innocent voices, to mirror yourself in 
these limpid eyes, and to seek refuge in the 
arms of these new sisters with such confi- 
dence ? 

What! Mignon, do you already know, 
you so young, what envy and hatred can be 


MIGNON. 


39 


hidden beneath a lace veil or a dress of moire^ 
j that you attach yourself with so much hope 
I to the serge habit of the nuns ? What has 
this lying world told you, who are hardly 
entering into its life, that you should be so 
happy to leave it ? With what bitterness has 
it poisoned your young recollections ? 

Meanwhile, the slender form of Mignon 
moved among her companions, as the poplar 
swaying to and fro among the willows. They 
started, and together with Mignon, made the 
tour of the vast court, she, learning and re- 
membering the name of each scholar, notic- 
ing the faces which pleased her most, attracting 
those whom timidity rendered shy, and all 
soon felt the charm of her presence. 

At the turn of an alley, she found a small 
creature crouched at the foot of a tree, strip- 
ping, with sadness, the leaves from the fallen 
branches of the plantains, apparently a strang- 
er to all the agitation which took place around 
her. She appeared not more than twelve 
years old ; her features were attenuated, her 
color lifeless, her large, hollow, and languish- 
ing eyes were filled with a profound sadness, 
her dress was soiled, her hands dirty, and her 
demeanor awkward. 


40 


MIGNON. 


‘‘Who is this poor child?” said Mignon, 
stopping with astonishment. 

“ It is Graziella, a mute,” said one of her 
companions, drawing her away ; “ she is 
vicious, and we leave her to herself.” 

“ But why ?” said Mignon. “ I see each of 
you holding by the hand a little child, who 
calls you mother. Where is the mother of this-' 
mute? Who is the mother of poor Gra- 
ziella ?” 

“ Oh, she has changed her mother four times 
since she came here, and each one has deserted 
her; when the last one left the convent no one 
would take her place. Look at the condition 
she is in ! And yet, the good sister Gertrude 
washed and dressed her this morning.” 

“ Has she always been so unhappy ?” said 
Mignon, looking at her with pity. 

“ Ho, she used to speak more than the others, 
and she can hear you perfectly well, see !” 

“But she once had a fright,” said one of the 
young girls, “ and since that she has never 
spoken a word. If that were all, but look 
what a condition she is in,” and loading Gra- 
ziella with reproaches, she exposed the disorder 
of her toilette, pulling her up roughly by the 
hand. 


MIGNON. 


41 


“ Leave her, I beg of you,” said Mignou, in 
her soft voice, extricating the hand of the child, 
and taking it in her own. “ See how she looks 
at me. She thinks, perhaps, that I also have 
suffered ; I, who am so happy with you all to- 
day. Let me yield to the inspiration which 
comes to me. Let me try to be her mother ; 
yon must assist me, and you will see how clean 
and nice we will make her. What must I do 
to get permission to be her mother 

Graziella, awkward, embarrassed, and 
ashamed, had heard these gentle words, and 
stopped in astonishment; the poor deserted 
child so little expected a sign of interest, her 
countenance brightened, she wiped her face on 
her sleeves, and her hands on her dress ; and 
soiled as they still were, seized the hand of 
Mignon, and making a supreme effort, she 
uttered, in a suffering air, and in a guttural 
voice, the words : Mother, mother !” But 
this name, so soft, so tender, and so easy, was 
the only one which could issue from her con- 
tracted lips. 

She has spoken ! She has spoken !” cried 
all the children. 

Graziella dragged Mignon, running as fast 
as she could, towards the Superior, who was 


42 


MIONON. 


strolling with some of the ladies at the en- 
trance of the reserved orchard. She placed 
herself before the group of nuns, presented 
Mignon, and kissing her hand, repeated, with 
difficulty: “Mother! mother!” looking at 
Mignon with ecstacy and admiration. 

“ The mute has talked, she has spoken !” re- 
peated the children, “ it is Mignon who makes 
the dumb speak.” 

“ What, Mignon,” said Madame Theresa, 
the Superior, with astonishment, after having 
consulted the other nuns with a look, “ do 
you really wish to be the mother of this poor 
forsaken being ? You will be doing a good 
deed, for we all love her, notwithstanding her 
want of care. She is not bad, and you will 
love her also when you learn her sad history. 
I confess to you, I have occupied myself with 
her for a long time, but without success ; but 
you, her companion, if you treat her with gen- 
tleness and friendship, you may, perhaps, suc- 
ceed, for it is, a warmer sympathy which she 
requires. In any case, my child, I like to see 
you make the trial, which proves your good 
heart. We will inscribe you as her mother; 
you will replace Sister Gertrude, who was 
excellent towards her, but who did not meet 
with much success, as you see, notwithstanding 


MIGNON. 


43 


all her pains. You will be responsible for her 
work and her behavior ; but we will not be 
severe in the beginning, for you will have 
trouble enough. Take courage, then, my 
dear, and expect everything from your heart. 
Well, Graziella, now you are happy! You 
have found a mother, and Mignon has untied 
your tongue. Let us see — speak again 1” 

Mother I mother !” said Graziella, with an 
effort accompanied by great signs of joy. 

For sole response, Mignon bent down towards 
the poor child, and embracing her tenderly^ 
said to her companions : 

“ From this moment she is my daughter, and 
whoever loves me will love her.” 

Then, taking her by the hand, she left her 
no more, but commenced relating beautiful 
stories to her, occupying herself at the same 
time with her toilette, which was in great need 
of improvement. The first station was natu- 
rally to the fountain, where Mignon washed 
the face and hands of her daughter. 

Was it not a touching group, this spontane- 
ous union of ugliness and beauty, of infinite 
grace and awkwardness, which amounted to 
brutisliness, of vivacity, of intelligence and a 
timidity which resembled idiocy, of strength 


44 


MIGNON. 


which protects, and weakness which has found 
succor and unexpected sympathy ? Every eye 
understood the charm of this contrast, every 
eye followed the young mother and the de- 
formed child, who skipped near her, looking 
proudly at every one, for she now felt a sup- 
port, and repeated “ Mother, mother !” 

To say that among so large a number of 
companions there were no smiles of mockery, 
no concealed looks of envy, would be ignoring 
poor human nature; it would be denying the 
existence of the cockle in the field of pure 
wheat. Without regarding the emotion which 
had been the means of drawing a few inarticu- 
late syllables from the poor mute, a laughing 
voice said to a group : “ She makes the dumb 
speak, she will soon make the blind see and the 
lame walk.” But Mignon was too contented ; 
she wished neither to see nor to hear those 
harmless satires, and at the end of recess she 
followed her companions, after having fondly 
embraced Graziella, who was no longer recog- 
nizable after the improvised toilette of her 
young mother. 

They were both happy, and who knows 
which feels the most, he who receives the daily 
bread or who gives it ? 


MTGNON. 


46 


Y. 

GRAZIELLA. 

Where does she come from, this fragile 
creature whom we found languishing under 
the plantains of the convent, whom we left 
consoled in the hands of the gentle Mignon, 
her new mother? Must this sad history be 
told ? It is the oft-told tale of misfortune, it 
is the fruit fallen before the Autumn, the 
flowers wilted before evening. 

And yet, she was formerly a beautiful child, 
blooming and cheerful, obliging and willing, 
the joy and hope of the house. Had you en- 
tered the studio of Marx, the sculptor, some 
years ago, you would have found what is rarely 
seen in this world a happy family. I love to 
penetrate into these sanctuaries of art, there to 
breathe the fresh damp air of the studio, to 
be present at the first labor of creative genius, 
to see and touch the clay which, under a 
powerful hand, takes a form, and even more, 
a thought ; to criticise these shapeless attempts, 


46 


MIGNON. 


some already cast aside, others kept with care ; 
to examine the favored plans, the finely modeled 
terra cotta^ the choicest morceaux^ preserved 
under glass, the graceful statuettes, the white 
ghosts of plaster — ^^last expression of the artist’s 
mind; and, finally, the blocks of marble, 
whose depth the sculptor sounds with a look, 
and of which he says : ‘‘ It will be a god !” 

I pause before the workman who cuts the 
snowy marble, developing and producing the 
ideal form which hides itself in the heart of 
the stone ; and, finally, I observe the pensive 
brow of the artist whilst he gives the last 
finish to his creation, gives life to matter, and 
polishes, with pride, each graceful form. 

Where can be found a more envied refuge, 
one which relieves us more from the vulgar- 
ities of life, from the heartlessness of the world, 
and from the weight of care? How often is 
oneself absorbed in the contemplation of art, 
and how frequent the conversations there held, 
in all the confiding familiarity so natural to 
artists, upon subjects so pure and elevating to 
the mind. 

That is real life ! Marx, the sculptor, was, 
indeed, happy. When young and strong, sur- 
rounded by his wife, daughter, and a few 


MIGNON. 


47 


friends, proud of his first success, and animated 
by a creative inspiration, he modeled the damp 
clay, singing and dreaming of the future, or 
when, holding the hand of his wife, he had 
upon his knee his little Graziella, then so in- 
telligent and bright. Happy days ! — num- 
bered days ! When the almond- tree turns its 
unfolding kernels and rosy blossoms to the 
first kisses of the sun, one blast of April wind 
dismantles its crest. Thus were chased away 
and perished the hopes of the artist. 

One must live ! Cruel word, which recalls 
the soaring spirit, which sinks into slumber 
the expansive soul, and which confines us in 
the iron bands of reality. 

One must live! And what sculptor can 
draw the wheaten loaf from the bowels of the 
marble ? 

Of all arts, there is, perhaps, none which 
offers more despairing impossibilities,and which 
imposes coarser labor. The poet, with his 
pen, the painter with his brush, expresses an 
idea, and can bring to light masterpieces. . . 
But the sculptor ! After many years of study 
to acquire the knowledge necessary to com- 
mence the most ungraceful of careers, he must 
have a vast installation, he must petrify the 


48 


MIGNON. 


damp clay like a mechanic, and hew the stone 
like a mason. And when at last he has mod- 
eled a figure which realizes his idea, he must 
purchase the marble at the price of gold, he 
must pay the workman who, under the direc- 
tion of the master, makes the “ rough cut 
and he must pass many days and nights in, 
gigantic toil. The work must then turn, to 
be seen from every point of view. Then, 
when all is finished, and the day of exhibition 
has arrived, everything is to be feared from the 
indifference of the public, or the cruel judg- 
ments of some inferior critic, who, with a 
stroke of his pen, can shatter a marble statue, 
or condemn it to an obscurity sufiicient to kill 
an artist of a sensitive nature. 

With what love did Marx caress his charm- 
ing creation of Graziella ! In courting inspi- 
ration from one of the most poetical narratives 
of Lamartine, he had chosen this subject be- 
cause it was the name of his beloved daughter. 
With what happiness had he hewn from the 
marble this ravishing form which the great 
poet had imagined ! What success was pro- 
phesied him when the connoisseurs, seated be- 
fore it, applauded with rapture on seeing this 
beautiful apparition turn slowly on its pedes- 


MIGNON. 


49 


^1, and present successively its perfect out- 
lines to the rosy light thrown upon it by the 
red drapery of the window ! It was life which 
animated this lovely form so gracefully bent, 
so distressed and languishing. The tears were 
real which flowed from its eyes. The marble 
wept ! 

A rich American in Paris, who was pur- 
chasing an “ assortment ” of objects of art on 
commission, without appreciating their merits, 
but according to the celebrity of the artists, 
and the orders of his correspondents, had seen 
Graziella in the studio, and merely promised 
to make a memoranda of it after the Exposi- 
tion of flne Arts. But during the flrst days 
of the exhibition, Marx received a visit from 
the American, who brought with him two 
small newspapers, which contained ironical 
and withering articles upon his statue. These 
were two poisoned arrows, which struck the 
defenceless artist. 

You will understand,” said the speculator 
from the blew World, coolly, “that the pub- 
licity of this criticism depreciates your mer- 
chandise, and I cannot, as far as I am con- 
cerned, give my own money for this marble, 
except at a deduction of one-third — say thirty- 


60 


MIGNON. 


three and one-third per cent, on the established 
price. That is the custom with cotton and 
coffee when they are low.” 

The troubled artist did not reply that these 
criticisms annulled themselves by their con- 
tradictions, and he did not appeal to any other 
testimony. His statue remained. It was the 
black speck which appeared on the cloudless 
horizon, and which was soon to become a 
storm. 

But his accounts ! Having been carried 
away by the charm of his subject, and the 
love of his art, he had forgotten to adjust 
them. The marble, the workmen, the models, 
etc., had cost him more than six thousand 
francs, and for the artist this was an enor- 
mous outlay. He had engagements to fulfill, 
then hard times followed. His wife, uneasy 
for the future, and divining the troubles which 
Marx endeavored to conceal from her, fell 
dangerously ill. Instead of continuing his 
work, he was obliged to seek help and reme- 
dies for her. 

One day one of his friends conducted him 
to a Mr. Crevecoeur, a rich merchant, and an 
amateur of the fine arts ; but very much oc- 


MIGNON. 


51 


cupied and absorbed by the press of business, 
and yet obliging and generous. 

‘‘My dear Mr. Marx,” said tlie merchant, 
“ I regret exceedingly not being able to go 
and see your Graziella^ that I merely caught 
a glimpse of at the salon^ but I do not belong 
to myself. As soon as I have a little leisure, 
count upon me. Like the rest of the world, 
I admire your talents, and I must have some- 
thing from you.” 

Then, seeing the sad air of the artist, he 
added, looking at him with interest : 

“ But tell me, what about your orders and 
your works ?” 

“ Sir,” said Marx, “I have no right to your 
benevolence ; why occupy yourself with my 
difficulties ?” 

“ Tell them all the same,” replied Mr. Cre- 
vecoeur, hurriedly assorting some papers ; 
“ who would not take an interest in a man like 
you ?” 

“Well, then, sir,” said Marx, making an 
effort, “ the ministry pays us in installments 
.the amount agreed upon; these installments 
are very soon absorbed by the expenses of the 
execution, and the necessaries of life, so that 
when the work is done, the produce has al- 
ready disappeared, and we are no better off 


52 


MIGNON. 


than before ; I hoped, that if you came to see 
my Graziella, for which I have been to great 
expense ” 

“ I cannot really do so,” said Mr. Crevecoetir, 
“ but if you need money, my dear Mr. Marx, 
do not incommode yourself. I shall be too 
happy to assist a man of talent, whom I both 
like and esteem.” And, presenting him with 
a paper, said : “ Give me a receipt for any 
sum you may require, payable when you 
like.” 

Marx was speechless with astonishment. 

‘‘ Sir,” said he, what you are doing is very 
unusual, for you only know me through my 
friends; I cannot express to you my gratitude; 
it must be a hard necessity which forces me 
to accept. May I then make out a receipt for 
two thousand francs, payable in a year ? Far 
before that time ” 

“ Double it,” said Mr. Crevecoeur, “ and now 
good-bye, for they are waiting for me. We 
will see each other again,” and telling his 
cashier to pay four thousand francs on a re- 
ceipt stipulated payable in two years, he left, 
excusing himself, and shaking hands alfec- 
tionately with Marx, who thus saw himself 
for the moment out of difficulty. 


MIGNOIT. 


53 


With this unexpected aid, Marx recom- 
menced to struggle onward, but circumstances 
only became still more discouraging. Ilis 
wife continued ill ; the expenses of his house 
augmented and no orders came in. Time 
passed on, and when this engagement for the 
four thousand francs expired, he was unable to 
fulfill it. Not having courage to present him- 
self at Mr. Crevecoeur’s, he wrote him, asking 
for a delay, but received no reply ; later, how- 
ever, he was informed that he was too ill to 
leave the house ; that he counted still on the 
Graziella^ if it were yet for sale ; but in the 
meantime, Marx need not be uneasy on ac- 
count of his debt, which would not be de- 
manded of him. 

The calm which those kind words brought 
to the household of the artist was of short du- 
ration, for a short time after a banker’s clerk 
knocked at the door of the studio, and pres- 
ented the fatal bill of four thousand francs, 
demanded by Madame Crevecceur, now a 
widow. Marx, getting pale at the sight of 
this signature, which informed him of the 
death of a generous protector, replied that he 
had no money, but that he would explain the 
matter in person. The boy took his pencil, 


64 


MIGNON. 


and wrote on the margin, with all the cool- 
ness of habit : no money — and left. 

The next day, Marx received a stamped 
protest; then the lawyer of Madame Creve- 
coeur, affecting conciliatory intentions, suc- 
ceeded in obtaining the signature of Marx to 
a most dangerous and compromising article, 
so that one fine day they presented him the 
decree which condemned him to pay to the 
successor of Crevecoeur four thousand francs 
and expenses, or suffer imprisonment. 

After having addressed himself to several 
friends, from whom he received no reply ; 
after having exhausted every expedient to pro- 
cure money ; after having offered his Graziella 
to the American at a vile price, he gathered 
all his courage, and presented himself to 
Madame Crevecoeur, who received him with a 
cold haughtiness, telling him that it was an 
affair of succession ; that she was a weak wo- 
man, unable to defend the rights of her chil- 
dren, but that he might come to an agreement 
with her notary. 

“ But, Madame,” said Marx, “ you are not 
aware, perhaps, of the interest which Mr. Cre- 
vecoeur took in me ; he left me entire liberty 
with regard to the payment, and I only ask 
for time, having friends that will help me.” 


MIGNON. 


55 


“ You doubtless do not intend to take ad- 
vantage of the negligence of Mr. Crevecoeur,” 
said the widow, coldly, ‘‘ to deprive the widow 
and the orphans of their patrimony ; for this 
bill was long since due, and we are losing the 
interest.” 

Marx, humbled, without resources, and with- 
out hope, left with downcast eyes the sumptu- 
ous house of the widow and the orphan, and 
returned silent and submissive to his disman- 
tled and abandoned studio. All that he loved 
was for him an object of discouragement. His 
arms, which supported without fatigue the 
weight of twelve hours’ labor, because the 
moral force sustained him, were paralyzed ; 
his legs refused to bear him, and he sank on a 
sofa at the feet of his statue. 

His child, Graziella, stood by his side, 
telling him that better times would soon come, 
and begging him to hide his uneasiness, so as 
not to disturb the repose of her mother, who 
was still in great danger. In the meanwhile, 
the authorities continued in silence their judi- 
cial work of ruin and destruction, till one 
morning when Marx was reached in his de- 
serted studio, his head hidden in his hands, 
an uncommon noise arose at the door, a blow 


56 


MIGNON. 


was struck with violence, and several ill-fa- 
vored personages entered together, one of them 
exhibiting a warrant. 

“ You are Mr. Marx?” said the constable, 
in a low voice ; “ we are directed to conduct 
you to prison for debt ; but fear nothing, we 
act with all the respect due to an artist ; a / 
carriage is at the door for you.” 

‘‘ For pity’s sake, silence !” said Marx, in a 
stifled voice, pointing to the chamber of his 
wife. “ I am at your disposition.” 

And leaving word to explain temporarily 
his absence, he went forth, casting a last look 
at his sad home. Graziella entered at the 
same moment. Misfortune, when it does not 
destroy the intelligence of a precocious nature, 
develops it to an unnatural extent. 

Childhood, which is born for joy, disappears 
in the contact with suflering. Graziella, un- 
derstanding all, precipitated herself down the 
stairs, arriving in the street just as they were 
shutting the carriage door, and followed, run- 
ning bareheaded after the corriage, which rap- 
idly rolled away. 

The passers-by stopped in astonishment, 
and did not even try to stay this light arrow 
darting through the air, which overcame 


MIGNON. 


57 


every obstacle, and, following her with their 
eyes as a meteor, they asked each other what 
this could mean. 

She arrived thus, breathless and exhausted, 
at the same time as the carriage glided be- 
tween the sentinel and the jailor, entered un- 
perceived before her father and the guards, 
and demanded mercy with so much energy, 
that they took pity on her despair, and con- 
ducted her to the parlor of the director. 

‘‘ Sir, my dear good sir,” cried she ; “ it is 
my father! and my mother is dying; pity! 
pi !” 

The word expired on her lips in a supreme 
sob, and she fell to the ground, shattered by 
an awful convulsion. The director’s wife, at- 
tracted by all this noise, entered in great haste, 
treated the child with all possible care, and 
finally succeeded in restoring her to conscious- 
ness, asking her repeatedly how she felt. 

Not a word, not a sound, the great tears 
streamed down her rosy cheeks ; her suppli- 
cating eyes were fixed on the charitable wo- 
man, but not a word, nothing ! The intense 
grie f had left too deep a wound in this bud- 
ding organization, henceforth doomed to si- 
lence and suffering. 


58 


MIGNON. 


How could this new affliction, more such 
than any other, be hidden from the poor fa- 
ther ? The wife of the director, (and there are 
everywhere to be found generous hearts), after 
having taken all necessary precautions, re- 
conducted the little mute to her mother. She 
was so touched with the state of destitution 
of this sad dwelling, that she placed a nurse 
and a physician with the sick woman. But 
alas ! all her efforts were useless, and the mo- 
ther of Graziella expired a few days after, to- 
tally ignorant of the new misfortunes which 
had visited her family. It was then that the 
directress conducted Graziella to the Convent 
of the Augustinians, where she herself had been 
brought up, for she knew she could rely upon • 
the solicitude of the good Superior. 

A month passed thus ; then one day the di- 
rector of the prison received, in an anonymous 
letter from Italy, the necessary sum to pay 
the capital and expenses of Marx’s affair. 
After attending to the formalities, he hastened 
to announce to the artist that he was free, pre- 
paring him at the same time for the fatal news 
which he was yet to hear. 

Marx sought in vain to discover from 
whence this unhoped-for succor came. He 


MTGNON. 


59 


arrived at his house under the most cruel ap- 
prehensions, scarcely enjoying his liberty, 
which was of short duration, for he fell into 
a state of languor, and soon succumbed be- 
neath the weight of sutfering, repeating con- 
tinually the name of Graziella. 

It was thus that the little dumb girl found 
herself, at twelve years of age, alone and for- 
saken in the world. Will you now pardon 
the poor child for having become ugly, awk- 
ward and stubborn ! The maternal care of 
the good' nun had no effect on this nature, 
embittered by despair, by her infirmities, and 
by the mockery of the children, which was 
often cruel, through thoughtlessness and inex- 
perience. It was thus that all grace, youth 
and vivacity had disappeared to make place 
for a state of prostration and insensibility. 

But a look from heaven, a look from the 
soft Mignon had penetrated to the bottom of 
this wrung heart, and had rekindled a spark 
of life. A vibrating voice had pronounced 
with ineffable tenderness the sacred word, the 
word jpar excellence^ the word by which one 
hopes, the word of Mother^ and despair was 
vanquished. The ice which bound this little 
Heart was melted by this magic ray, and the 


60 


MIGNOK 


poor orphan was bj this single word again 
brought back to the world of the living. And 
an echo had repeated, not from her lips, but 
from the bottom of her warmed and resuscita- 
ted heart : Mother ! Mother ! 


YI. 

THE ANGLING. 

According to popular belief, there are sinis- 
ter stars which spread their fatal influences 
thro’ the atmosphere as soon as their wan and 
dreaded rajs appear on the horizon. There 
are perfidious plants, whose brilliancy attracts 
and captivates, whose perfume intoxicates and 
causes sleep, and whose sap is sour and fatal. 

There are also perverse natures, which are 
as emanations of the genius of evil, which 
spread their destructive infiuence over all that 
surrounds or touches them. These beings, often 
endowed with a fatal power, pass like a curse 
over the earth, living only in selfishness and 
hatred ; like the burning lava which sweeps 
o’er the golden harvest, they leave behind them 


MIGNON. 


61 


but desolation and ruin. They would almost 
create a doubt of divine justice, if, according 
to the views of Providence, they did not, per- 
haps, serve as a contrast and trial for that vir- 
tue whose triumph they often prepare. 

Woe be to those who fall by surprise into 
the claws of these pitiless vultures ! Let them 
not call upon a heart, where the heart is 
wanting ; let them flee or die ! But if they 
yield, the wicked one will repose himself con- 
querer on the fresh grass of their graves, as 
cold and impassible as the petrifled lava on 
the harvest it has destroyed. ^ 

In the narrowest part of the Eue du Sentier, 
there was formerly, at the end of a court, a 
sombre-looking store, devoid of all appear- 
ance of luxury, but in which, however, an ex- 
tensive commerce of precious stufis was carried 
on. There were stored together the richest 
productions of the world; the cashmeres of 
India ; the silks of Italy ; the carpets of Tur- 
key ; the gold and silver cloth fabricated at 
•Lyons ; the flne tissues of the north of France, 
and the beautiful shawls of Borneo. 

The chief of this house (so modest in ap- 
pearance, and so powerful by its immense ne- 
gotiations and its long standing), was named 


62 


MIGNON. 


Aime Crevecoeiir. He was the successor of 
the Crevecoeurs, whose name from father to 
to son was known in the annals of commerce ; 
and, although their name was not preceded 
by the prefix of nobility, the Crevecoeurs, 
by their proverbial honesty, generosity and 
importance, found themselves without op- 
position at the. head of the commercial aristo- 
cracy Of the Rue du Sentier. The time had 
not yet come when a misplaced exhibition of 
borrowed luxury and pomp, which deceived 
no one, was to attract and detain the crowd. 
An immense custom remained attached to 
these ancient establishments, which can be 
called “ houses of confidence,” words which 
meant something then, although they were 
not written over the door, and which have 
been since so misused. Aime Crevecoeur was 
then a man, still young, with much refinement, 
and hiding under an air of coldness a heart 
both tender and easy to move. He had mar- 
ried the daughter of a rich merchant of Lyons, 
who had brought an immense fortune to this 
already affluent house. 

The young woman was intelligent and 
agreeable ; but from her simplicity, her gen- 
tleness, and the ardor with which she tried to 


MIGNON. 


63 


render herself useful, who could have recog- 
nized a millionaire ? She received with much 
grace and politeness the women ol the world, 
who often hid their embarrassed circumstan- 
ces under a deceptive appearance, and under a 
shade of superciliousness which many fine la- 
dies consider in good taste, 
i Crevecoeur, blessed with every advantage 
I of fortune, enjoying a 'high commercial con- 
sideration, happy in the social peace of his 
family, felt his felicity doubled when a last 
gift of heaven perfected his worldly hopes ; a 
charming creature, impatiently hoped for, 
came to complete his home, and enliven still 
more his blessed hearth. He called his daugh- 
ter Theresa, the name of his fond wife. 

Every grace and every beauty seemed uni- 
ted in this lovely miniature which was born 
beneath the smile of heaven. Nothing was 
omitted either for eyes or heart in the charm- 
ing progress of childhood, which develops and 
unravels itself, so to speak, like a rosebud at ' 
the breath of morning. 

i Oh, young mother ! keep her near you, hold 
her well on your heart, like a bridal bouquet, 
this fresh blossom which heaven sends you, 

I or else you would not be a mother. Hold her 


64 


MIGNON. 


in your arms, this little angel which God 
confides to you, or else He will, perhaps, say ; 

“ She was not a mother, and the angel will fly 
away.” 

Yes, in this merchant’s house, at the end of 
the narrow, damp Hue du Sentier, in the 
midst of the vulgar cares of business, poetry 
had descended with love and beauty. Creve- 
ccBur reveled in this ineffable sight, one more 
ravishing than all that the heart can imagine : 
a young and tender mother holding in her 
arms a lovely child, which seemed an emana- 
tion of heaven. 

In admiring these large blue eyes, this an- 
gelic smile, this sweet carnation, and these 
outlines as pure as those which Raphael seek^ 
in his most sublime creations, the young mo- | 
ther sometimes said with pride and emotion : 

“ Oh, my friends ! she is too beautiful for 
this world !” 

Indeed, that was the first impression pro- ^ 
duced at the sight of little Theresa ; it was 
the surprise which one would feel at the ap- 
parition of a supernatural being. It seemed 
as if this radiant countenance lighted up all 
that surrounded it, and spread thro’ every 
heart the charm which was the essence of its 
existence. 


MIGNON. 


66 


It was another thing, when leaving the lap 
of her mother, she commenced to walk and 
talk. Where did that light step come from, 
if not from the invisible wings which still 
bear her up, and made her glide over the 
ground? From whence came that heavenly 
voice ? It came from the heart, and went to 
the heart, and was still more captivating when 
she commenced to grow, and to talk; when 
she revealed all the treasures of her little 
soul ; when she became for her mother a grace- 
ful and tender companion. 

How proud he was, Aime Crevecoeur, when 
on the promenade he held the hand of Ther- 
esa, when the passers-by, particularly mothers 
and children, paused to contemplate this 
touching physiogomy, to comprehend the 
mysterious charm of the angel, and repeated 
to themselves: “ How beautitul she is !” She 
also, the little Theresa, she already under- 
stood the joy and charm which she spread 
around her, but she was neither embarrassed 
nor vain ; no more vain than the brilliant rose 
before which one stays, saying : “ How beau- 
tiful it is !” 

But enough, enough joy ! happy family, 
pass on to others the cup of happiness, so that 


MIGNON. 


each one may at least moisten their lips. Al- 
ready, yes already, it is your turn to suffer ! 
The funeral bell has rung. It is the young 
mother who has died, carrying with her a 
child who never has seen the light. Creve- 
coeur, in the midst of his riches, felt himself as 
unhappy and as despairing as the poorest of 
the poor. Theresa was five years old ; who 
would protect this frail creature ; who would 
teach her; and, above all, who would love 
her ? f ]tIothing replaces a mother. \ . . . 

He tried to recommence with ousiness, to 
give himself up with ardor to his specula- 
tions ; he tried to travel, after having confided 
his child, his treasure, to sure hands; but 
everything recalled him again to Theresa, and 
with her, he felt still more the immense deso- 
lation which the mother of the family had left 
on the domestic hearth. 

Two years thus passed without bringing 
any consolation to the wound of his heart. 
His sole solace was sometimes to succor thfe 
afilicted — to be a sympathizer with every grief, 
in remembrance of his dear wife. 

One day an urgent call of business obliged 
him to leave home again, to go to the aid of the 
chief of an important manufactory, an hon- 


MIGKON. 


67 


' orable man, who was, for the moment, in 
: great distress. He could not, however, sepa- 
I rate himself from his dear little Theresa, but, 

I surrounding her with every care, and accom- 
I panied by a devoted servant, started off with 
' her for the manufactory of Mr. Morin, situa- 
. ted in one of the rich and smiling valleys of 
; Norman d}^, beyond Konen. 

He was received as a savior, for he imme- 
: diately furnished to Mr. Morin the means of 
i! re-establishing himself, at the moment when 
his ruin was certain and imminent. He also 
brought him, besides, important orders, which 
enabled the merchant to keep and support 
his population ot workmen. But even the 
outpourings of gratitude could not make Cre- 
vecceur forget his grief. He still wept for 
his Theresa, so soon returned to heaven, and 
above all for the little Theresa, who was left 
on earth with him for her only support. He 
felt his energy give way, and he himself had 
need. of a guide and support. Notwithstand- 
ing his indifference to all around him, he could 
not see without emotion the friendship and 
adoration that the charming Theresa had won 
for herself from her entry into the manufac- 
;ory, and above all, the profound pity which 


68 


MIGNON. 


Miss Susanna, eldest daughter of Mr. Morin, 
showed by her affecting looks. She was a tall 
young girl of twenty-two years, with hair 
blacker than the raven’s wing ; with haughty 
countenance, flashing and fascinating eyes, 
and knowing pretty well how to make the 
best use of her advantages. 

How many times had Crevecceur caught 
her holding the beautiful child in her arms, 
forming by the very opposition of these two 
natures an admirable group ! Then Susanna 
would appear very much affected and embar- 
rassed, and would leave the child, holding her 
handkerchief to her eyes. Crevecceur himself 
could not understand the sentiment which 
seemed to raise up from the bottom of his 
heart, when he saw this charming woman’s 
form, with her finely proportioned arms- — a 
refuge — a sort of new cradle for his Theresa, 
his beloved angel. 

He avoided the family gatherings, and wan- 
dered often at night through the long wind- 
ing alleys of tlie great park, which extended 
from the end of the meadows to the foot of 
the wooded hills, which rose in the form of 
an amphitheatre. Hormandy, noble and fer- 
tile province, is covered with these enchant- 


MIGNON. 


69 


ing sites, and the industry which there pros- 
I pers and vivifies it, takes nothing away from 
I the charm of this calm nature, but lends it a 
new interest by the different thoughts which 
the spectacle of its activity brings forth. The 
park was crossed by a little river, which wound 
gracefully round the hill, and poured into the 
rich valley the waters which fertilized the 
plain, and which were used by the factory. 

Susanna knew, perhaps, that Crevecoeur 
was fond of this walk, for she sometimes 
strolled there, in a pensive mood, and seemed 
to avoid him, by quickly leaving when she 
found herself, as if by chance, in his pres- 
I ence. 

! On a beautiful Summer evening, the little 
I Theresa, captivated by the gambols of a brood 
of young ducks, was bending over the bank 
of the river, in which a grown person could 
run no risk, but where a child could easily 
perish, if not rescued. How came she there, 
this little creature ? Who had thus forgotten 
and exposed her ? 

“ Unhappy child !” screamed Miss Susanna, 
with a piercing voice, and rushed towards 
her. 

Theresa, startled, stretched out her arms to 


TO 


MIGNON. 


catch hold of a branch, lost her balance, and 
fell, with a loud cry. The intrepid Susanna 
threw herself into the water without hesita- 
tion, caught up the poor child, covered with 
mud and weeds, and standing up in the water, 
which came to her waist, resisted the current 
which swept against her. She raised the child 
out of the water, and, pressing her to her 
heart, cried for help in a desperate voice, for it 
was, perhaps, difficult for her to mount with- 
out assistance up the rocky bank. 

He who first heard this cry of grief, and 
who rushed in haste, was the unhappy father. 

“ She is alive !” cried Susanna, covering the . 
child with kisses. “ Have no fear ; I saw her 
fall in from a distance ; she was not two sec- 
onds in the water ; she is alive ! Do not 
tremble so, but help me out !” 

Crevecoeur, beside himself, and paler than 
death, received in his arms the insensible child, 
who began to revive, laid her with care on the 
grass, and offering both hands to Susanna, he 
helped her out of the water, she dripping and 
wet, happy and proud of her heroic act. The 
brilliancy of her complexion heightened this 
vigorous beauty, which would doubtless have 
captivated Crevecoeur, if he could have 


MIGNON. 


71 


thought of anything else than the danger of 
his child* 

As soon as Susanna was out of the river, 
without considering her toilette, without list- 
ening to all that Crevecoeur tried to tell her 
in his gratitude, she took Theresa in her arms, 
commenced undressing her, and sent authori- 
tatively the father to get clothes and assistance 
from the house. 

“ Go quickly I” said she to him ; “ you can 
tell me all that later ; or rather, wait — stay 
here 1” 

Crevecoeur stood motionless, already yield- 
ing to the influence of this powerful voide, to 
this angelic will which was perhaps to gov- 
ern him. 

Susanna caught up with energy the shawl 
which she had thrown on the border of the 
river before going in ; and with the solicitude 
of a tender mother, wrapped in it the shiver- 
ing child, who was recovering its senses, and 
who smilingly embraced her. 

“ ISTow, take your child,” said she, “ and run 
to the house. We will put her in a warm bed, 
and nothing more will come of it.” 

“ And you, dear child ; dear, rescuing an- 
gel !” said Crevecoeur, in a voice trembling 
with gratitude. 


72 


MIGNON. 


“ Well, I have taken a cold bath, which is 
very healthy, and I am going in with you, so 
let us be off ; but don’t look at me in that way, 
and take care of our child, which you are car- 
rying.” 

How these little words, our child^ dropped 
by the merest chance, touched Crevecceur to 
the depths of his heart ! He cast a look at 
Susanna, as if to entreat her to attach a mean- 
ing to these words : our child ; but Susanna 
was looking at the scenery. He admired so 
much force and devotion, joined to such sim- 
plicity ; he pensively contemplated this pow- 
erful nature, this superb beauty with the step 
of a queen, which bent the tall meadow flow- 
ers beneath her streaming dress, while seeming 
to be solely occupied with Theresa. 

Was it not a grand triumph for the valiant 
Susanna to enter the house with the child she 
had saved from an inevitable death ? with the 
father to whom she had restored his dearest, 
his only treasure ? Had she not done more by 
this beautiful act, than Crevecoeur could have 
done by a mere advancement of money ? 

Susanna wished to install herself at the bed- 
side of her child, and so pass the night there. 

“Go and rest,” said she to Crevecoeur; 


MIGNON. 


73 


“ men are not fit for all these little cares ; you 
see your child is very comfortable. Be easy, 
I will not leave her an instant, and shall see 
you to-morrow.” 

Indeed, the pretty Theresa, nicely warmed 
in a good bed, felt no pain whatever. She 
soon dropped into a deep sleep, without letting 
go the protecting hand of Susanna. 

The following days, Crevecoeur, pensive and 
silent, kept his eyes fixed on Susanna, who did 
not appear to observe him. She left Theresa 
no more ; but appeared more attached to her 
since the adventure of the river, and obtained 
permission to have the child sleep in her room 
— it was a real adoption. 

Had Susanna then divined that, for a gener- 
ous heart, the greatest seduction is devotion 
and sympathy ? Did she know, like the bird 
catcher, that to get the old bird, you must first 
catch the young ? However, Crevecoeur 
thought he saw in the tender friendship which 
Susanna bestowed upon Theresa, a feeling of 
pity for himself and his isolation ; and this 
sentiment appeared to him all the more prob- 
able, as Susanna tried doubtless to hide it from 
him in avoiding all tete-d-tHe, 

One day as Susanna (like a beautiful Ma- 


74 


MIGNON. 


donna of Titian), was holding in her arms the 
graceful child, under one of the garden trees, 
Crevecoeur approached and said : 

“ Susanna, what will I do when you are no 
longer there to attend to my child? And 
Theresa, who will love you when we shall 
have gone ?” 

“ Do you wish to engage me as governess ?” 
said Susanna, gaily, with a provoking look. 

“Have you not yet understood me, Sus- 
anna?” said Crevecoeur, sadly, and taking her 
hand, “ from the first day that I saw you hold 
my child in your lap, and embrace her, did I 
not divine that you alone could be her mo- 
ther ? Has not my look already told you so ? 
But since you have saved her, God also must 
have made you feel it ; she is yours, Susanna ; 
will you already abandon her ?” 

“ Don’t speak in that way,” said Susanna, 
appearing very much moved ; “ do not pain 
me so. Have I not done all in my power to 
avoid this interview ? If I always avoided 
you, do you now understand why ? Never 
speak to me of these impossible projects,” said 
she, (turning away her head, and putting her 
hands to her eyes) : have pity !” 

“ Are you not free,” said Crevecoeur, “ and 


MIGNON. 


75 


tlie mother of Theresa, does she not approve 
of what I do, if she can hear me, when I wish 
to give as second mother to my child, she who 
lias saved her life — she who loves her with a 
heart so tender 

Yes, I love her,” said Susanna, with 
warmth ; “ I love her !” Then, convulsively 
grasping the hand of Crevecoeur, and putting 
her finger on her lips, as if to beg of him to 
say no more, she ran off. 

‘‘Why does she not want to be my mother 
any more ?” said Theresa, weeping. “ Let us 
stay here, then. What would we do without 
her?” 

Crevecoeur, shaken by the tears of his cher- 
ished child, tried to console her, but found for 
himself no consolation ; he could only attrib- 
ute the refusal of Susanna to a sentiment of 
extreme delicacy, for he knew she was almost 
totally without fortune ; she was the eldest of 
a numerous family, and her father could 
doubtless only give her an insignificant 
dower. 

This disinterestedness augmented his es- 
teem still more, to which he involuntarily 
added, perhaps, a warmer and tenderer senti- 
ment. He resolved to address himself to Mr. 
Morin. 


76 


MIGNON. 


‘‘ My dear friend,” said he, “ you pretend 
that I have done you a great service, wliile I 
deserve really no praise, for, from all that I 
have seen, I am convinced that my funds are 
in good hands, and that you will soon have 
re-established your fortune. But if your grat- 
itude weighs upon you, and it you wish to be 
relieved from it, you can do so from this hour. 
Give me your Susanna, for we can no longer 
live without her. Give, as a mother to my 
child, the one whom Providence has pointed 
out to us, in placing the life of Theresa in her 
hands, and we will thus strengthen the ties of 
our unalterable tnendship. ’ 

“Do you dream of such a thing, Creve- 
coeur !” said Morin, rising, as if to put an end 
to the consternation. “Do you mean Sus- 
anna, who has nothing, to marry a million- 
aire ? Why, my friend, you will find in the 
neighborhood of the Due du Sentier, fifty heir- 
esses, amongst whom, in your magnificent 
position, you need only to choose. You have 
saved me, and now you expect me to inveigle 
you into an unprofitable marriage. E’o, you 
shall not have my daughter. Besides, pardon 
me the expression, it is still to he learned 
whether she would have you, for she is rather 


MIGNON. 77 

romantic, and we cannot influence her in the 
least.” 

“ Do not disturb yourself about that,” said 
Crevecoeur ; “ if she is not easy to manage, 
she will manage us, and we feel happier for 
it. But you, Morin, you intend to refuse me 
your daughter ; you intend to let us go. See 
what a condition my poor Theresa is in. Shall 
I then have to regret all my life the visit I 
have made to your family ?” 

“ All that I can do,” said Morin, after hav- 
ing consulted his wife, and a little dazzled by 
the enormous advantages of this unexpected 
proposition, “ all that I can do, is to prevent 
your committing an absurdity ; but as for as- 
sisting you, do not count upon me. You 
know my means; Susanna has nothing, that 
is all I can tell you.” 

Affairs had turned, then, to the satisfaction 
of Crevecoeur, and to that of her he already 
loved more than he supposed. The next day 
he found himself again in the garden, and in 
Susanna’s path, just at the moment she wished, 
apparently, to avoid him. 

“ Susanna, dear Susanna,” said he, arrest- 
ing her steps, “ why do you fly from me ? 
Have you then any other serious motive for 


78 


MIGNON. 


repulsing me? for he who would consider your 
pecuniary position, would he unworthy ot 
you. Your father himself gives you to me, 
but it is you who fly from me ; it is you, Sus- 
anna, who cannot decide to love us.” 

The countenance of Susanna lightened with 
a radiant joy. 

“ My father,” said she, “ is it my father 
who accords you my hand 

And she leaned confidingly on his heart. 

“ I love yon,” said she, in a low, trenibling 
voice. “ I loved you, Orevecoeur ; did you 
not know it — could you not guess it ?” And 
she fixed on him an ardent look. 

Orevecoeur, beside himself with joy, embar- 
rassed by the fire of that eye, pressed her with 
delight to his heart. 

The happy man, or rather the man who 
thought himself happy, returned to the house 
with Susanna and his daughter, and presented 
his promised wife to the assembled household, 
invoking the promise which had been made 
him, not to oppose his wishes. 

Susanna appeared so moved, so jo^mus and 
so tender ; she understood how to feed in so 
many ways the growing passion of Orevecoeur, 


MTGNON. 


79 


that, to satisfy each one, and to calm so much 
impatience, the marriage was hastened, and 
solemnized, after a short absence of Creve 
coeur, at the house of Mr. Morin, who gave a 
splendid entertainment, at which the charm- 
ing Theresa shone like a little star. 

Crevecoeur, after having showered the sis- 
ters of Susanna with presents, and having left 
amongst the workmen many marks of his gen- 
erosity, took leave of the family, and returned 
full of hope to his house in the Rue du Sen- 
tier. 

But the superb Susanna entered into the 
possession of her new domain, dragging with 
her two shackled slaves, and holding well in 
her nets the two golden fish which had al 
lowed themselves to be caught in the little 
river ! 


80 


MIGNON. 


YII. 

THE POISON. 

Aee there no other poisons than those whieh 
ooze from venomous trees ; than those which 
are hidden in the bowels of the earth, or that 
which is caused by the bite of the serpent ? 
Oh ! yes, there is another more sure and more 
subtle ; it leaves no accusing trace in the veins 
of its victim, and the man of science would 
seek in vain for its antidote. The laws are 
powerless against him w'ho knows how to ad- 
minister with prudence this poison, whose re- 
ceipt is easy, and whose effects are infalli- 
ble. 

The venom which alone makes as many 
ravages as all the curses which afflict human- 
ity — you know it well — it is selfishness — the 
adoration of self. 

Selfishness, which is the contrary of gener- 
osity and of love, is the active messenger of 
every evil, and the seven capital sins are 
merely its adornments. He who does all for 


MIGNOIT. 


81 


others, finds the beautiful and the true ; he 
has only to follow the divine light, and let 
himself be guided by his heart, which never 
deceives him. 

Under this inspiration, love^ taken in the 
most noble meaning of this divine word, be- 
gets love, and the angels themselves rejoice ; 
but he who desires all for himself, can only 
create around him the emptiness and coldness 
of the grave. In nature all is effusion ; has yf 
not the poet written : 

“ The sun does not say : I will keep my light; 

The river does not say : I will keep my waters ; 

The orange-tree rolls its fruit on the grass ; 

The vervain pours out its entire soul in its perfume.” 

One must descend to the last grade of the 
class of created beings to find the hard, impas- 
sible rock. Man can only make use of it by 
breaking it. 

We have seen in the blessed Convent of 
the Augustinians, calm, order, serenity, and 
every good obtained without other resources 
than love ; let us also see what a happy and 
enviable position can become under the influ- 
ence of the destructive — Self, 

And for that, we have only to follow the 


82 


MIGNON. 


glorious Susanna, on her entrance into the 
house of Crevecceur, into the modest store in 
the Eue du Sentier. 

Susanna Morin’s was not a vulgar ambi- 
tion ; she knew how to wait. The serpent 
knows also how to fascinate bj its look, and 
so envelop in its subtle folds, like a caress, the 
victim it intends to stifle ; but let us not at- 
tribute to Susanna so guilty a premeditation. 

The unhappiness of others was not her end 
— it was but the means of reaching it ; she 
wished to enjoy herself, and had no other in- 
stinct. 

It was, therefore, with a countenance both 
frank and full of kindness, that she received 
the ready homage of the entire Crevecceur es- 
tablishment, where her grand airs made a 
great sensation. Although the apartments 
which were reserved for her were far from 
pleasing her, she appeared charmed with 
everything; but she observed all, and made 
her resolutions and arrangements in silence. 

Although the servants were aged and too 
simple for her taste, she complimented them 
on their fidelity, for they had all served the 
first wife of Crevecceur, and had mourned for 
her well ; but at the same time, she intended 


MIGNON. 


83 


to throw aside all this mummery eventually. 
She was thinking of a fashionable maid, some 
footmen of irreproachable figure, and above 
all, a chief cook of the highest ability: that 
was her ideal. She was smiling and affable 
with the relations and friends who were intro- 
duced to her, but said to herself, that, with a 
fortune such as chance had placed at her dis- 
posal, or rather one which she had gained by 
her manceuvering, she could procure for herself 
friends far more amiable, or at least, more 
brilliant. 

However, nothing betrayed her designs, and 
when she pressed to her heart the confiding 
Theresa, holding the hand of her husband, 
Crevecoeur could believe that his happy days 
had returned.. 

She knew how to portray every shade of a 
lively and tender passion, said she was very 
happy, yielded every point, declared all things 
indifferent to her, and yet managed everything 
to the attainment of her own ends. 

She gained still more empire, when her state 
of languor and weakness announced to Creve- 
cceur that she bore a symbol of their union. 
She leaned on his arm, was unhappy by a mo- 
ment’s absence ; in fact, he was her humble 
slave and attentive admirer. 


84 


MIQNON. 


She passed whole days reclining on a soft 
sofa, doing little else than surrounding herself 
with every luxury. 

Theresa, still young, was already her devot- 
ed handmaiden, and she did not fail to em- 
ploy her on every occasion. At the sight of 
this beauty, however, which developed itself 
in all its splendor, in all its charm, drifting 
shades of ill-humor began to cross the brow 
of Susanna, and to foretell the coming storm." 
Sometimes she sent Theresa away without mo- 
tive, loading her with reproaches, roughly for- 
bidding her entrance, wishing no other care 
than that of Crevecoeur, who made a thousand 
endeavors to quiet her caprices, and com- 
menced with patience the readings which she 
asked for, but did not listen to. 

During the intervals of these attacks, she 
enjoyed grand receptions, splendid dinners, 
brilliant fUes^ at which she presided in extrav- 
agant toilettes, showing off to full advantage 
her beautiful arms and swan-like beauty. But 
when she failed to attract sufficient attention, 
and when a young and graceful woman, in- 
troduced into the house, captivated the assem- 
blage by her talents or wit, a sudden attack or 
an improvised swoon soon put Crevecoeur in 


MIGNON. 


85 


mind that she was the only one with wlioni he 
must occupy himself, and that he must only 
exist for her. 

Each new born child brought into the house 
levies of chambermaids and nurses, which the 
indolent Susanna did not trouble herself to 
take charge of. Crevecoeur governed this wo- 
man’s department in the same spirit of wisdom 
ana order that had ruled his business, and ab- 
' sorbed by his cares, as well as by the adora- 
tion he was obliged to render to his idol, he 
neglected the superintendence of the Creve- 
coeur firm, and forgot his friends, who, on 
their part, no longer dared to visit this house, 
where they always arrived so mal apropos. 

His only amusement was to collect a few 
works of art that he was fond of ; generous 
Crevecceur found therein occasion to encour- 
age some young artists, as we have seen at the 
commencement of this story; but in surround- 
ing Susanna with these choice works, he could 
not count upon sympathy from his family, for 
this thoroughly commonplace woman neither 
could nor would understand anything of an 
ideal charm, and held in contempt everything 
which spoke to the heart alone. 

The state of melancholy in which Susanna 


86 


MIGNON. 


excelled, caused serious uneasiness to the too 
tender and too sincere heart of Crevecoeur, 
who, already once struck bj misfortune, fore- 
saw, in the least indisposition, a fatal attack, 
and redoubled his care, attention and devo- 
tion. Susanna draped herself in her vaperj 
dressing gowns of muslin, which set oif and 
increased her beauty, and lying languidly on 
her sofa, was served apart in her own cham- 
ber ; she could no longer take part in the con- 
cerns of her family, and increased more and 
more the isolation around lier. 

In a few years four weak little girls had 
successively increased the family. The ambi- 
tious Susanna had always hoped for a son, on 
whom she expected to fix the preference of 
Crevecoeur, and to make him forget a little the 
natural predilection which the angelic beauty 
and grace of Theresa inspired; the jealous 
mother yielded to her ill-humor at seeing her- 
self thus thwarted in all her plans. 

When they presented to her, at certain 
hours, her troop of little children, who, always 
confided to mercenary care, possessed neither 
charm nor grace, whose features were vulgar, 
who quarreled and screamed around her, and 
who called her the lady^ she looked at this nu- 


MIGNON. 


87 


merous progeny with disgust and discourage- 
ment, blamed Theresa for every fault in their 
toilette; and, involuntarily comparing the tri- 
umphant beauty of her stepdaughter with the 
vulgarity of these little creatures, she would • 
dismiss them all in a fit of anger. 

Then she would remain plunged in the most 
sombre reflections. There was one bitter 
thought which was continually betore her, and 
constantly underm'ned her. Theresa would 
be rich, much richer than her own children; 
for, besides the share of the common inheri- 
tance, she would have all the fortune of her 
mother ; she would add to the advantage of 
rare beauty, that of a considerable dower. 

To compensate herself, Susanna determined 
at least to enjoy the entire splendor of her for- 
tune. She prepared a revolution in the hab- 
its of the Crevecoeur establishment; and, as 
everything bent before her will, or rather be- 
fore her skill, whatever she wanted came to 
pass. 

She had not much difficulty in persuading 
her doctor that the air of the Eue du Sen tier 
was bad for her, and that it was the cause of 
the miserable condition of her children ; soon, 
by the order of the Faculty, a sumptuous 


88 


MIGNON. 


lioiise in the quarter of the grajid monde was 
chosen in which to establish this numerous fam- 
ily, who were cramped and incommoded in the 
court, within the shadow of the commercial 
house. 

Crevecoeur, blinded, shrank from no ex- 
pense to satisfy these new exigencies. But to 
keep pace with the elegant friends whose lux- 
ury she envied, Susanna must have a car- 
riage, with all the increase of servants and 
expenses which were the consequences. Why 
could she not also have her country seat? 
What could be refused her? Was she not 
beautiful enough, was she not tender enough 
for Crevecoeur ? Did not her delicate condi- 
tion require the greatest care ? 

Crevecoeur, therefore, yieldea on every point, 
carried away by a passion which deprived him 
of all power of resistance, captivated by the 
countless proofs of affection which were show- 
ered upon him by the adroit Susanna, who 
cared but for him, and who left him not an in- 
stant’s peace or liberty. A fine country seat 
was, therefore, bought in Normandy ; for the 
principal thing was to return as lady of the 
manor to the country that she had quitted with 
no other fortune than beauty and cleverness ; 


MIGNON. 


89 


the embarrassment and poverty ot her depar- 
ture must be crushed by a grand and trium- 
phant return. 

The merchant, subjugated by this irresisti- 
ble influence, but frightened at the future 
which was preparing for him, sometimes ven- 
tured to say that the resources of liis com- 
merce, which had already suffered by the 
change of residence, could not support this 
prodigality; that the dower of Theresa did 
not belong to him, and he must preserve from 
any catastrophe this large sum, for which he 
was responsible. 

To touch upon this subject, was to kindle 
the rage of Susanna. She then had frightful 
attacks, and only came to herself to reproach 
Crevecoeur with not flnding means to provide 
honorably for the establishment of his family ; 
she would then quote to him the names of 
merchants who, in intermeddling in flnancial 
affairs and lucrative speculations, had made 
colossal fortunes in very little time. Some- 
times she introduced him to bankers or agents, 
who promised to double his fortune if he would 
associate himself in their dangerous traffic. 
Crevecoeur was weak enough to enter into this 
path ; but the peril to which he exposed him- 


90 


MIGNON. 


self, caused him to make, when too late, many 
bitter reflections, and the light began to enter 
his mind. He looked back, remembered the 
perfect calm of his first menage^ and compared 
it with the agitations of his present life. 

He saw his poor Theresa melancholy and 
forsaken, appearing to have understood long 
before what he himself was but just begin- 
ning to feel. One day, when their eyes met 
with a particular expression, he clasped her in 
his arms. 

“ Poor child !” said he, without adding an- 
other word. 

She embraced him, and said nothing, but 
these two wounded hearts had understood each 
other. 

His old friends had deserted him ; the 
doubtful society which Susanna attracted on 
certain days in her house to show ofl* her new 
splendor, could not* suit the taste of Creve- 
coeur. He found there only noisy joy, and 
pleasures that he could not partake of; no- 
thing for the heart, nothing for the mind, and, 
therefore, he kept aloof. 

He met with no other sympathy than the 
devoted friendship of Maurice de Terrenoire, 
near relative of his first wife. Maurice, much 


MIGNON. 


91 


yoTinger than Crevecoeiir, had been brought 
up by his care, looked upon him as a brother, 
and had formed for him an intimate and un- 
alterable friendship. Perhaps the reader will 
remember having heard of him at the com- 
mencement of this story ; he was the obliging 
friend who introduced Marx, the sculptor, to 
Crevecoeur, and had thus procured him an as- 
sistance which was not destined to profit him 
long, and which, by a fatal infiuence, was to 
be the cause of his ruin. 

This attachment thoroughly displeased the 
imperious Susanna, and she had ventured 
everything to bring about a coldness and rup- 
ture. After having made very gracious ad- 
vances to Maurice to rally him to her inter- 
ests and domineer over him, and having ob- 
tained no success, she had adopted contrary 
tactics. She had tried to compromise him in 
dark transactions, and had employed against 
him the odious weapon of calumny ; but Mau- 
rice seemed to see nothing of all these man- 
oeuvres, and persisted alone, out of all the old 
friends of Crevecoeur, in his visits to this des- 
olate house, as if he had taken upon himself 
the secret mission of watching over this house- 
hold, threatened with some unseen danger. 


92 


MTGNON. 


Maurice de Terrenoire was one of those 
honorable, calm and observing men, whose 
severe glance troubles doubtful consciences 
He liid with difficulty the profound interesi 
with which the charming Theresa inspired 
him ; she who, at the age of sixteen years, al 
ready possessed every grace of a young wo- 
man, and whose poetic beauty developed it- 
self from day to day with a new splendor. 
He rarely spoke to her, and the difference of 
age encouraged no familiarity; but he ad- 
mired her in silence, and could not keep his 
eyes off this lovely spectacle. Maurice, 
barely twenty-six years of age, had, so to 
speak, had no youth. He had been serious 
and passionately fond of the sciences from his 
earliest years, and was already regarded with 
a consideration, ordinarily only accorded to 
riper age. By assiduous study he had ob- 
tained a high rank in bridge and road build- 
ing, and was a skillful engineer, whose last 
works had been noticed and complimented by 
the minister. Susanna, who revolted against 
the slightest resistance, would not confess her- 
self beaten. She must conquer him at any 
price. CreveccBur must be left alone in her 
power. She penetrated into the thousand 


MIGNON. 


93 


labyrinthine windings which surround power; 
worked upon the hidden springs of diplomacy ; 
recoiled before no influence, and by the inter- 
vention of one of these women who smuggle 
themselves in everywhere, she succeeded in 
persuading the minister that Maurice de Ter- 
renoire desired extremely to obtain an im- 
portant mission to Italy, already solicited by 
one of his colleagues, but that he was too 
proud to ask for it himself. The ^minister, 
who highly prized the capacity of Maurice, 
was happy to give this proof of his confldeuce, 
and hastened to send him his nomination and 
instructions. Maurice, very much surprised, 
tried in vain to get rid of his new functions. 

‘‘ It is too late,” said the minister ; “ we 
have counted on you ; besides, this circum- 
stance is too favorable to your interests and 
promotion, for me to permit you to neglect it, 
and you will thank me for it later.” 

He had to go. It was not without great re- 
gret that Maurice bade good-bye to Creve- 
coeur. Susanna triumphed in silence, in see- 
ing the success of her cunning; she was then 
to get rid of a troublesome witness, and of a 
far-sighted judge. 

My friend,” said Crevecceur to him, tak- 


94 


MIGNON. 


ing him by the hand when they were alone, 
“ then you are going to leave us? You have 
not sought my confidence, but I know that 
you have guessed my position. Oh, you, the 
only friend I have left ; you who bind me by 
my memory to the time of my passed happi- 
ness ; Maurice, I am not happy. And my 
dear Theresa, who I wished to protect in form- 
ing new ties, has she not sufiered enough 
without complaint ? Maurice, you are going 
away, and a fatal presentiment tells me I shall 
soon need your assistance.” 

“ Entirely and always at your service,” said 
Maurice; “ but chase away these sad thoughts, 
and take courage. It is blindness which has 
ruined you, Crevecoeiir ; if you see your dan- 
ger, it is already nearly avoided. It is not for 
me to show yon what you should do, but you 
need energy. Take care, and be watchful.” 

“ I have lost my energy,” said Crevecoeur, 
in a discouraged voice ; “ my strength is leav- 
ing me, my friend, and everything appears 
difficult for me. I feel myself governed by ii 
fatal infiuence. Yes, it is too late to resist 
the authority I have permitted to rule. The 
least check, I feel it, can now overthrow me. 
But there is above all an uneasiness that tor- 


MIGNON. 


95 


ments me ; if I succumb, what will become of 
Theresa ? Her youth, her beauty, are dan- 
gerous for her. You know it, I feared for- 
merly to leave her without a mother ; but to 
you alone I can say it, Maurice, I fear still 
more now. Yes,” said he, making an effort, 
“ I have made too late this discovery which is 
killing me ; it is not with a mother that I 

leave her, it is ” 

“ But you are here to defend her,” said 
Maurice, interrupting him. 

“ My friend, my moments are precious,” 
said Crevecoeur, “ we are, perhaps, observed, 
for my life is exposed to every gaze ; take 
these papers quickly, I cannot place them in 
better hands; promise me not to open them 
until you get the news of my death.; I hope, 
Maurice, you will do what I ask of you. I 
have counted on you, and possess no other 
friend.” 

And he took his hand, unable to continue. 

“ I will bring you back these papers on my 
return, my friend,” said Maurice ; “you alarm 
yourself without serious motive. In any case, 
count upon me ; I owe you all ; my life is 
yours.” 

Maurice was not a demonstrative man, but 


96 


MIGNON. 


he was a sure, devoted friend, and his word 
was sacred. 

Crevecceur appeared less uneasy when he 
knew his last wishes were in such pure hands. 
Maurice quitted him, tenderly embracing him, 
slowly shaking the hand of Theresa, in inter- 
rogating her by a look which expressed all 
his sentiments of protection and respect. 

“ Thank you !” said Theresa, looking at 
him with gratitude; and there was a great 
deal of expression in the sound of this voice 
and moist eye. 

Crevecoeur found himself more solitary and 
unhappy than ever after the departure of 
Maurice. He could not take Theresa for a 
confidant, not wishing to deprive her of what 
might be left her in the way of illusions as to 
the afifection of her stepmother, and already 
instil distrust into this soul so loving and ten- 
der. There are presentiments which never 
deceive. The perilous negotiations in which 
Crevecoeur had entered, under the influence, 
and almost under the orders of Susanna, to 
meet the enormous expenses of his house, and 
to rapidly increase his fortune, pre-occupied 
him incessantly. He no longer felt his mind 
strong enough to support the circumstances ; 


MIGNON. 


97 


new exigencies constantly appeared. An un- 
expected mishap, which was liable to put in 
danger the heretofore spotless honor of his 
house, seriously affected his health. Theresa, 
watchful of his welfare, did not wish to leave 
him an instant ; but her stepmother often suc- 
ceeded in getting rid of her, by occupying her 
with a thousand cares for the young family. 

One day, seeing Crevecceur quite unwell, 
Susanna made bold to ask him, indirectly, 
whether he had made his arrangements, and, 
considering herself only, even in such a sad 
situation, she gave him to understand how 
very uncertain her position would be if he did 
not take care to provide for it. 

Crevecceur, already weakened by so many 
previous emotions, and struck by this last 
trait of selfishness, made no reply, and fell in 
to a great state of prostration. Susanna, 
frightened by the evidence of suffering, with- 
drew without saying a word. When Theresa 
entered the chamber of her father, she was 
terrified at the state in which she found him, 
prostrate in an arm-chair, pale, without move- 
ment, co"’ered with perspiration, and breathing 
with difiiculty. She thought at first he was 
insensible ; but she soon remembered that his 


98 


MIGNON. 


eyes alone still had life, and were fixed on her 
with tenderness and energy. 

“ My father, my dear father, what is the 
matter cried she ; “ has the doctor been sent 
forf’ 

“No!” said her father, with amotion of the 
head. 

“ What do you want ? what do you want ?” 
said Theresa, tenderly, on seeing the suppli- 
cating expression of his eyes ; “ have you any- 
thing to say to me — to me alone 

“Yes,” said Crevecoeur, by nodding his 
head with difficulty. 

“ Oh, speak, my dear father ! I will do all 
that you will tell me. I know all ; I have 
understood all ; I have felt all that you suf- 
fer ; you may tell everything to me 

Crevecoeur made vain efforts ; he could not 
speak: a word, being already struck with the 
commencement of an attack. But his eyes 
were always fixed with the greatest vivacity 
on his daughter, and from thence, describing 
a circle, were directed towards one of the walls 
of the room. Theresa turned her eyes in the 
same direction, seeking what could fix the 
glassy gaze of her father, and timidly point 
ing to a miniature hanging near the fireplace : 




99 


“ Is it that ?” said she. 

“ Yes,” returned Crevecoeur, by an unmis- 
takable nod of the head. 

“ That’s it, dear father, that’s it ; you wish 
me to listen to Mr. Maurice as I would listen 
to you ; to have as much confidence in him as 
I would in you, and that he be a brother to 
me. Say, is not that what you mean?” 

The face of Crevecoeur revived an instant, 
and making a final effort, he feebly murmured, 
“ looking at Theresa with the lenderest 

possible expression; then this look became 
dim, and he fell back in his chair. 

He already existed no longer — tho work of 
destruction was accomplished. The poison ot 
selfishness had penetrated through and through 
his veins, but the medical man was not des- 
tined to find any trace of it. 

Theresa fell on her knees before him, called 
him in vain, held his already stiffened hands, 
and, no longer able to doubt of her misfortune, 
fell fainting at his feet, without possessing the 
force to call for assistance. 

A serving maid, entering by chance, found 
the father and daughter in this condition, 
thought them both dead, and rushed to in- 
form her mistress, employing every precaution 
so as not to alarm her sensibility. 


loo 


MIGNON. 


The nearest doctor, called in haste, de- 
clared it was too late ; that Crevecoeur had 
been dead half an hour from a frightful stroke 
of apoplexy. 

“ As for this young girl,” said he, after hav- 
ing contemplated with pity this beautiful re- 
clining marble, like a daughter of ITiobe, “ it 
is nothing ; but take care of her, she needs the 
greatest management.” 

He made a few prescriptions and left. 


MIGNON. 


101 


YIII. 

THE MARTYEDOM. 

The mask falls ! Susanna is no longer the 
languishing and exhausted wife, passing her 
life breathing salts on a sofa by the dim light 
of a houdoir / she rises as Sixtus the Fifth rose 
when he threw away his distaff. She is cured ; 
she is strong ; she is powerful ; now everything 
shall bend before her. She is queen. 

It is to her that belong the country seat, the 
town house, and hotel Crevecoeur; she thinks 
so at any rate ; she has well earned them. 
And Theresa also belongs to her — to her, with 
neither succor or defence. 

The unhappy child was not in a state to 
comprehend what passed around her. She 
had indeed seen a priest sitting at the head of 
a corpse ; she had seen men dressed in black 
pass out, bearing a heavy burden. She re- 
mained in her immobility like a statue of suf- 
fering; she did not even know how to weep. 

“ Enough !” said Susanna, passing near her, 


102 


MiaNON. 


“ your grief, doubtless, is no more profound 
than mine, and yet I manage to contain my- 
self.” 

“ I know the obedience I owe you, Mad- 
ame,” said Theresa, making an effort. “I 
shall regulate my conduct on yours. If you 
do not permit a daughter to weep for her fa- 
ther, I will hide my tears as you hide yours. 
You have only to command, Madame ; I know 
my duty, and will prove to you ^ my submis- 
sion.” 

“We will see,” said Susanna; “1 shall 
judge you by your actions, and not by your 
words.” 

Susanna’s first care was to send for her law- 
yer, and shut herself up with him. 

Theresa tried to overcome her grief, or at 
least not to let herself be crushed by it. She 
wished to trace out for herself a line of con- 
duct ; she remembered the recommendations 
of her father, and found a feeble consolation 
in thinking that there was left her on earth a 
protector on whom she could count — a friend 
in whom her father had ordered her to have 
confidence as in himself — a brother who had 
given her his liand before leaving. 

She, therefore, took confidence in God, and 


MTGNON. 


103 


said to herself that, in accomplishing all the du- 
ties that would be imposed on her; in be- 
stowing her friendship and care on her little 
neglected sisters, she could still find some re- 
pose within herself, and cherish in secret 
her 80%cvenirs ; she promised to watch over 
herself, and to be prudent and strong. 

“ These are my father’s children,” said she 
to herself ; “ I will love them as cherished sis- 
ters, as all that remains of my dearly loved 
parent ; the tenderness that I shall show them 
will, perhaps, disarm an irritation that I can- 
not account for.” 

Her time, that she formerly divided between 
her studies, the society of her father, and the 
cares of the house, she now consecrated en- 
tirely to the four little girls, always abandoned 
to the care of nursery maids. 

This tall and beautiful young girl, in deep 
mourning garments, was continually sur- 
rounded with these four little creatures, whose 
future was so uncertain. It was like a young 
widow surrounded by her children. 

She taught them how to speak well, to hold 
themselves properly, to be polite and gentle 
to each other. These little children, so long 
isolated, adored her, and could not do without 


t 


104 MIGNOX. 

her ; these little plants, as she cultivated them n 
by love, became less wild. r 

“ Where is he then, our father V’ said the ; 
children ; “ will lie soon come back 

They knew nothing of life / Theresa was 
obliged to teach them what death was. 

“You come from heaven,” said she to them, 

“ and if you are good and love one another, 
you will return to heaven, and then we will 
all see our good father again, who has already 
gone there, and who is waiting for us. But 
he is watching you, he always has his eyes 
fixed on his dear little daughters, and calls 
them by name. If they listen, they can still 
hear his voice ; if they love each other, he 
will be pleased ; but if they quarrel together, 
he will cry.” 

The little ones loved their father exceed 
ingly, for it was from him and from Theresa, 
far more than from their mother, that they 
had always received attention and caressing 
tenderness. They, therefore, looked out of 
the window up to heaven, to try and see their 
father, and sometimes fancied they lieard his 
voice. 

One day, when they could not agree, the 
eldest said to another, looking at Theresa, and 


MIGNON. 


105 


giving up the plaything that was the object of 
this grave discussion : 

“Don’t let us quarrel, but make peace with 
a kiss, for there is father who is going to 
cry.” 

yTheresa took care to say with them always 
^eir evening and morning prayers ; nothing 
is sweeter and more salutary in a family, and 
there always arises good influence from it. 
^The name of her father, of her relations, and 
of her f riends were never forgotten in these 
prayers. A rapid change was thus produced 
in the habits of these little children, whom 
kindness and gentleness already rendered more 
interesting. 

She almost reproached herself with not hav- 
ing devoted her entire life to them. She for- 
got the thousand attentions with which she 
had surrounded her father, and the thousand 
futile occupations with which her stepmother 
busied her, to get rid of her ; but now the 
widow was absorbed with inventories, law- 
suits and calculations to arrive at the exact 
amount of her personal fortune, and she, for the 
first time, abandoned Theresa to her instincts 
of devoted sisterhood. Madame Crevecoeur, 
furnished with the “ Code of the Widow and 


106 


MIGNON. 


the Orphan^'^ surrounded with law-books, 
which she was trying to decipher, in contin- 
ual consultations with lawyers and agents, 
soon awoke from her illusions. 

The notary had much difficulty in making 
her understand that, after so much extrava- 
gance, the larger portion of what remained of 
the fortune formerly so flourishing, represented 
the inheritance of Theresa alone, ana that she 
would only have the remaining part to divide 
with her four children. 

Another instinct, as cruel as extreme, was 
awakened within her at this new and unexpect- 
ed announcement : it was the affection of the 
she-wolf for her young. One of her children 
was sick ; she had not interested herself in the 
least, and Theresa was watching at the bed- 
side of the poor little one, when Susanna en- 
tered the nursery. 

“Who authorized you^'^ said she, “you, 
Theresa, the stranger, to watch over my 
daughters, and in what a condition do you 
render me this one 

And seizing her by the arm, she pulled her 
away from the bed. 

“For pity’s sake,” said Theresa, in a low 
voice, “ spare me at least before these children. 


MIGNON. 


107 


who love me still — am I not their sister? Be- 
sides, the soul of mj father, which has hardly 
departed from this house, might hear us yet. 
These are my little sisters, madame ; why 
doubt of my affection for them ? Allow me 
to love them ; I will do nothing without your 
permission. I implore you, let me accom- 
plish the wishes of my father ; I will prove to 
you my entire obedience.” 

“ W as it also the wish of your, father. Miss,” 
said Susanna, with contempt, that placed in 
your chamber that which was found there ?” 

And she showed the miniature of Mau- 
rice. 

“ You are precocious, Theresa,” added she, 
with intentional cruelty. 

“ Oh ! madame,” cried Theresa, indignantly. 
She then stopped, and sought vainly for a re- 
ply ; she wished to say nothing of the last re- 
commendations of her father. 

‘‘ Retire to your chamber,” said Susanna, 
coldly, “ and await my orders.” 

Theresa left the room, giving a last look at 
her little sisters, who cried, and wished to fol- 
low her, and the sight of this affection aug- 
mented still more the hatred of the vindictive 
stepmother. 


108 


MIGNON. 


The lawyer of the family was a Mr. Eenard, 
one of the most honorable of men, a kind and 
devoted friend, who had made many an effort 
to save Crevecoenr from the precipice which was 
destined to prove his ruin. He had, however, 
continued to be the intimate counsellor of 
Madame Crevecoeur. He let her talk, confess 
her plans, and even encouraged her in her am- 
bition, as if he wished to see how far she really 
would go. 

But was that being a sincere confidant of 
the intentions of Madame Crevecoeur, or did 
he not say to himself that he could better de- 
fend the interests of the friend he had lost, 
by preserving the entree into this house, 
whose profound iniquities he clearly saw? 
What induces us to believe it, is that his well 
known delicacy won d have prevented his be- 
ing an accomplice in any evil design ; and be- 
sides, Mr. Renard was also tlie notary and in- 
timate friend of Maurice de Terrenoire, and 
should know all that went on. 

He listened, therefore, with amiability and 
an apparent sympathy to the complaints that 
Susanna was never weary of making against 
her stepdaughter. Numerous friends called, 
more for curiosity than affection, to know how 


MIGNON. 


109 


Susanna, who gave herself out as a millionaire, 
was getting on. She did not fail to recount 
how she had found in Theresa’s bedroom the 
portrait of Mr. de Terrenoire, which had been 
carried off, as well as a few other small trin- 
kets ; she insinuated that Theresa had alone 
been present in the chamber of her father, and 
pretended to render her responsible for all 
that might be missing. The rumor of an in- 
timacy between Theresa and Maurice soon 
went the rounds of this frivolous society, eager 
for scandal ; the story was ornamented with 
comments, to which each narrator added his 
mite. 

When Theresa appeared in the parlor, she 
was received with perfidious advances and ill- 
concealed smiles. Some of the women, who 
could not pardon her for being young, beau- 
tiful and rich, were too happy to ask her, with 
great show of interest, how Mr. de Terrenoire 
was. 

We will not attempt to describe what she 
suffered in thus seeing the last wishes of her 
lather treated with disrespect, and trampled 
under foot. Every heart will divine what 
this long martyrdom of the poor Theresa must 
have been. 


110 


MIGNON. 


Mr. Eenard, the lawyer, continually assi- 
duous with Madame Crevecoeur, who could 
no longer do without him, had still the time 
to write to Maurice de Terrenoire, and had 
not failed to inform his friend of all that 
passed, or that could interest him. He had, 
perhaps, also received his reply and instruc- 
tions. For, one day, as Susanna showed him 
how difficult it was for her, just leaving for 
the country, to take care of a young girl who 
could not take care of herself : 

“ It is not easy, I acknowledge,” said the 
lawyer ; “ ah ! one wants for that the good 
double doors of a convent — and I remember 
now, I have just the thing that you want — 
but no, on reflection, it cannot suit you.” 

“ What then ? Let us hear it ?” said Sus- 
anna, with vivacity, “ for I really do not know 
what to do with her !” 

Ah ! I know of a convent where the girls 
are t'ghtly kept,” said the lawyer, “ and there 
is, perhaps, the objection that Theresa might 
get there the taste for a nun’s vocation ; for I 
have observed in her character a little enthu- 
siasm on this point, and if you really wish to 
marry her to any one, you would, perhaps, be 
committing an imprudence. After all,” added 


MTGKON. 


Ill 


he, carelessly, ‘‘if she should \)Q(iOTciQi a nun, 
that is her lookout, and your children will not 
certainly be the losers by it.” 

“But I do not say no,” said Susanna, with 
indifference. “ There is really some sense in 
your suggestion, and then, in taking this de- 
cision by your advice, I will have all the less 
responsibility. I rely entirely on you.” 

“Very well,” said Benard, “ try and decide 
her ; I flatter myself that I can give you a let- 
ter of recommendation which will open every 
door for you.” 

Susanna foresaw with secret joy the great 
advantage of getting rid of the disagreeable 
presence of Theresa, whose beauty, riches and 
submission, even, offended her ; resistance 
would have given her a better excuse for her fits 
of anger. Besides, there was still left her the 
happy chance of her taking the veil, and thus 
“abandoning all of her fortune to her sisters. 

She called in Theresa, and speaking to her 
with gentleness, contrary to her custom, she 
informed her of the proposition of Mr. Een- 
ard. 

“Dear madame,” said Theresa, supplicat- 
ingly, “ do not separate me from my sisters — 
they are all that is left me of my father ! 


112 


MIGNON. 


What have I done to deserve jour anger ? I 
will help you, inadame, to take care of these 
dear children ; you cannot always occupy 
yourself with them. You know the youngest 
is in delicate health; your servants cannot 
have for your children the same affection as 
yourself. I will replace you sometimes ; I 
beseech you do not separate me from the fam- 
ily !” 

“ You consider yourself indispensable, per- 
haps said Madame Crevecoeur ; “ undeceive 
yourself, however. A mother can take your 
place. Reflect, Theresa; I will do you no 
violence. Go, we will speak of it again.” 

A short time after, Theresa stood in the 
chamber of her stepmother, who had sent for 
her, and was giving her orders. 

“Don’t you hear?” said she ; “ look for my 
scissors, which are on the mantel-piece.” 

Theresa, always ready, went in the direc- 
tion ordered ; but in taking up the scissors, 
she involuntarily cast her eyes over an open 
paper, printed in large letters, on which the 
scissors were placed. The name of Terrenoire 
was the first word that met her eye. 

The paper was not bordered with black, 
and consequently could announce no bad 
news. 


MIGNON. 


113 


Why, then, was she obliged to lean against 
the mantel-piece ; why did she put her hand 
to her burning forehead at reading these few 
lines : 

“ Madame : — , 

“Madame Widow de Terrenoire has the hoDor to an- 
nounce to you the marriage of her son, Mr. Maurice de 
Terrenoire, Engineer of Roads and Bridges, with Miss Mary 
Visconti. 

“Florence, June 13th, 18 ” 

Why was Theresa petrified at reading this? 

“ Well, Theresa,” said the stepmother, im- 
patiently, “did yon hear me? What are you 
dreaming of?” 

“ I am dreaming of the convent where 

you want to send me,” said Theresa, making 
a last effort. “ Oh ! how happy I should be 
there ! I will be no more an obstacle to your 
plans, madame ; dispose of me ; I am ready 
to go.” 

“ Another freak !” said the stepmother. “ It 
is doubtless to be the last.” 

A few days after this interview, Theresa 
was introduced by the Widow Crevecoeur into 
the parlor of the Augustinians, as we have 
seen at the commencement of this story. 


114 


MlftNON. 


IX. 

THE GOOD GENIUS. 

Enough ! enough of misery, of tears, of 
trials, of despair, of torment; the curse has 
accomplished its work ; let us now count the 
victims. 

Poor Marx ! What has become of your 
creating genius ? Where have flown your il- 
lusions ? How comes it that you fall expiring 
at the feet of your exquisite statue, of your 
masterpiece, which would have made your 
glory ? 

And poor little flower, young hope of your 
family, Graziella! You who, rapid as the 
wind, followed your cherished father to the 
doors of the prison which was almost destined 
to be his tomb, why are you now speechless, 
and why do you wander, with glazed eyes, 
like a spirit in the midst of the living ? 

Unhappy and too indulgent Crevecoeur : 
you, the consoler of the afflicted; you who 
only lived for others, and always forgot your- 


MIGNON. 


115 


self, why have you descended so young into 
the tomb ? Why do you leave without protec- 
tion your beloved daughter, now exposed to 
every enmity ? Who will bring up and pro- 
tect your young family ? And you, our 
charming Mignon, a creature so gentle, so lov- 
ing and inoffensive, you who scatter every- 
where on your passage, joy and happiness, 
have you suffered enough from calumny and 
contempt ? Have you been enough wounded 
in your respect for your cherished father, in 
your noblest and purest affections ? 

Why have you all fallen ? 

There is no necessity for our seeking the 
weapon that has struck all these blows. We 
know it now, this implacable selfishness which 
nourishes itself only frf»m bleeding hearts. 

But who will dress the wounds of those who 
survive ? Who will give them shelter I Who 
will bring the remedy? 

It will be a noble heart. The heart that 
^ knows how to love is strong ; it can not only 
succor the living, but also give to the dead a 
consolation even beyond the grave, by replac- 
ing them on earth, and fulfilling their dearest 
wishes. A great heart is the divine genius^ 
and Maurice de Terrenoire had a great heart. 


116 


MTGl^ON. 


Our young engineer was at this all powerful 
age when, under the influence of pure inspira- 
tions, the heart overflows with inextinguish- 
able ardor; when the torrent gushes forth its 
waters without counting its drops, and with- 
out foreseeing the draught which will dimin- 
ish its forces and exhaust its flood. He had left 
home, hiding his great uneasiness, but he had 
not quitted France without maxing arrange- 
ments to be informed of all that interested his 
friends. From childhood he had been inti- 
mately acquainted with Marx, the sculptor. 
They had not ceased their intimacy on em- 
bracing difierent careers, and Maurice hadjmo: e 
than any other, appreciated the richness of this 
ardent nature. 

In introducing the artist to his friend Cre- 
vecoeur, he considered himself responsible for 
the result; he did not wish this assistance to 
become for Marx a means of ruin. As soon 
as he was informed of the fatal news of the 
death of his friend Crevecoeur, and of the law- 
suits which the pitiless widow w^as instituting 
against the unhappy artist, he tliought it his 
duty to answer temporarily for the money; 
he, therefore, hastened to send the sum to the 
director of the prison. His notary, who was 


MIGNON. 


117 


his confidential agent, followed np the affair, 
and kept him informed of the details of its 
execution. Through this faithful intermediary, 
he heard of the new and irreparable loss he 
had just made of a friend of his youth, of a 
lifelong companion, and also of the entrance 
of Graziella into the Convent of the Augus- 
tinians. 

He then wrute to the wife of the director 
of the prison — this generous woman whose 
heart was not yet hardened by contact with 
continual misfortune — to thank her for her 
maternal care, and to reimburse her for the 
expenses she had incurred with so much lib- 
erality. Then, when by authority of justice, 
the furniture of Marx was sold, he directed 
Mr. Renard to purchase for him, at any price, 
the entire bulk of the furniture, statues, and 
objects of art, and renewed the lease of the 
studio, so that everything might be kept in 
the same state until his return. Indeed, he 
seemed to have in this particular very decided 
intentions. Easier in mind, he then wished 
to* continue his role of protector and adoptive 
father, and ordered his lawyer to pay regularly 
the board of Graziella, and to make very care- 
ful inquiries about the respectable house of the 


118 


MIGNON. 


Aiigustinians. He foresaw that he would, 
perliaps, need this refuge for the secret object 
of his affections, for the gentle Ther^a, for 
the precious treasure that a father had con- 
fided to him. Deploring the imperious law 
of duty that kept him so long away from 
France, he fostered the idea of reuniting un- 
der the same roof the two forsaken beings that 
Providence had confided to his care. But we 
will never succeed in making a novel hero of 
Maurice; he had neither the seductions nor 
poetry of one, and he knew it. He was a 
worthy young man, who only followed the 
dictates of his own heart, and who simply em- 
ployed in a noble manner the money already 
gained by his merit and unceasing toil. In 
our practical age, it is not impossible to meet 
with such natures. 

Mr. Benard congratulated himself on the 
role he played with such success before Mad- 
ame Crevecoeur ; he thus made discoveries 
which would have escaped him if his indigna- 
tion had kept him aloof, and he did not fail in 
a regular correspondence to inform Maurice 
of all the persecutions of which Theresa was 
the object, and of the accusations with which 
she was loaded. Hot understanding exactly 


MIGNON. 


119 


the story of the portrait, for he ignored the 
last conversation between Crevecceur and his 
daughter, Maurice read over ten times the 
sentence in the letter, where it was written 
that this miniature had been found in her pos- 
session. 

It was for him an inexhaustible subject of 
meditation and revery, and although the fu- 
ture appeared uncertain and obscure to him, 
he wished to think of nothing around him, 
but only to look forward to this period so far 
distant. 

His first care was to rescue Theresa from 
this house where she had suffered so much. 
He felt that in pretending to interfere 
openly, he would increase the difficulties, and 
raise a natural opposition on the part of the 
imperious widow ; he, therefore, decided to 
act with the greatest circumspection. 

Taking the excellent Mr. Renard more and 
more in his confidence, he induced him to 
suggest the convent to Madame Creve- 
coeur, as an establishment thoroughly suited 
to her designs, and to let her see all the ad- 
vantages which the avidity of the widow 
could covet. 

For honest people, it is a little pastime to 


120 


MIGNON. 


fight deceivers with their own weapons. Mr. 
E-enard, who knew the entire candor of Mau- 
rice, and who perceived, perhaps, a means of 
assuring the future of Theresa, entered into 
all his designs. The widow easily fell into 
the innocent trap which was laid for her, and 
it is then that the beautiful orphan found in 
the Convent of the Angustinians a secure re- 
fuge, and the repose she so much needed. 

But the repose of Mignon, for now that we 
have conducted her to the doors of the con- 
vent, in relating the beginning of her sad his- 
tory, we wish still to call her by the charming 
name which her companions had given her ; 
the repose of Mignon was still troubled some- 
times by her souvenirs. Why ? she would 
not, perhaps, have been able to say herself. 

Was it a printed letter which she had found 
one day, as if by chance, beneath her eye — a 
letter by which the marriage of Maurice was 
announced to Madame Crevecoeur? 

But no intimate friendship had ever existed 
between Maurice and herself, who was very 
cold, very reserved, and much older than she 
was. 

It was rather an adviser— a tutor that she 
would find in Maurice, according to the 


MIGNOK. 


121 


wishes of her father. Had she then felt a pro- 
found attachment for this beautiful and noble 
character, which refreshed her after all the 
frivolous and hostile beings she met with in 
her stepmother’s house? Had she even the 
hope of being loved ? Had she even dreamed 
of devoting her life to ^lis ? Had she some- 
times imagined that the most intimate and sa- 
cred tie might one day unite forever the 
daughter of Crevecoeur to the devoted friend 
of the unhappy father, and that these two 
lives would be passed in cultivating apart this 
pious remembrance ? 

Perhaps Mignon had had this dream, for 
she could not ignore her beauty, although she 
was no more vain of it than the flowers of 
the field. She had often observed the serious 
and dreamy look of Maurice fixed upon her, 
as if to question Destiny ; and when she sang 
at the piano, before her father and Maurice, 
she had surprised an emotion in the latter, 
who, according to the pretention of a few 
tistes^ declared himself indifferent, and a 
stranger to music ; and when she had by 
chance taken his arm while walking, she had 
felt unmistakably in this circumstance an em- 
barrassment that she experienced in no other j 


122 


MIGNON. 


she could not account to herself for the sen- 
timent she had for Maurice, but it was cer- 
tainly not what she felt for any one else. 

And then, why had she herself not been in- 
formed by letter, like Madame Orevecoeur, of 
an event so important in the life of Maurice ? 
She sometimes felt herself hurt at this indif- 
ference ; but Mignon did not know the storms 
of the heart. She felt no resentment, but 
had for the friend of her father both affection 
and gratitude, and always counted on him as 
the only support that was left her. 

But her horizon was narrowed, the liglit of 
her heaven had waxed dim, and the future 
seemed gloomy and hopeless. She lived be- 
cause she had to, but without either desire or 
object. If she had only thought of herself, 
she would have said, like Margaret of Scot- 
land : Out upon life, let me hear no more 
about it But, obeying her good nature, she 
showed no sadness, but wished, above all, to 
make herself beloved, and to serve others. 
We have, therefore, seen her immediately 
take the abandoned Graziella in her arms, and 
biing her to life, so to speak, by the most ten-, 
der pity, by the charm of her words and looks, 
and by her soft maternal kiss. 


MIGNON. 


123 


On liis part, Maurice de Terrenoire, if he 
had a sincere affection for Mignon, who united 
every charm of youth and beauty, every ac- 
complishment of the mind, and every treasure 
of the l)eart ; if she was all the more dear to 
him, because she was confided to him by the 
wishes of a father, and because she was alone 
in the world, and exposed to every peril ; if 
all these motives guided his thoughts towards 
her, and her alone, while he wandered along 
the banks of the Arno, without seeing the 
beauties which surrounded him : if, finally, 
Maurice de Terrenoire loved Mignon, he 
would have taken great care not to let her 
know it. A motive of delicacy would have 
prevented his showing the least eagerness. 
Mignon had a large fortune, and the authority 
itself which the last directions of Crevecoeur 
had given to Maurice, imposed the greatest 
reserve upon him. 

As for the letter about the marriage, it had, 
doubtless, not been printed in Florence, where 
there had been no question of anything of 
that sort. If this was the case, the letter came 
from Paris, and only one copy had been made 
for the necessity of the case, as the business 
men say. It was, indeed, a perfidious weapon, 


124 


MIGNON. 


which could not compromise the enemy who 
made use of it. 

What! Mignon, why do you complain? 
Your stepmother merely receives a printed an- 
nouncement ; it is not a letter, it is not a sig- 
nature, and no one knows where it comes 
from. Why do you look at what is not in- 
tended for you ? And besides, have you ex- 
amined it well ? What has become of it ? 
It has already disappeared. You are too 
proud to ever allude to it — to find out the par- 
ticulars, or to ask any questions. And if you 
feel yourself wounded by this sharp weapon, 
the blood will only flow in the wound, and no 
one will see it. 

It was, therefore, according to appearances, 
a secret between Madame Crevecceur, who had 
taken no confidant in this machination, and 
Mignon, who, of course, said nothing. All 
that was very well planned. 

Maurice could not even suspect so strange 
a perfidy. In his absence, he only thought 
of the two beings he had taken under his pro- 
tection. He admired this power of the heart 
and mind that traversed space, surrounded 
with hidden care the loved ones, caused its in- 
fluence to be felt without being seen, and 


MIGNON. 


125 


whicli triumphs still over difficulties it can 
not openly attack. He would have liked to 
have known whether Mignon tliought some- 
times of him. He had often commenced let- 
ters to her, hut he could not yet decide to oc- 
cupy her with himself. He, therefore, con- 
tented himself with consecrating to her all 
his thoughts, and recommending her to the 
solicitude of the excellent notary, to whom he 
had involuntarily unveiled all his plans. 
Meanwhile, he thanked Grod that gentle Mig- 
non was now happj^ and tranquil in the Con- 
vent of the August! nians. 


126 


MIGNON. 


X. 

THE MIRACLE OF ROSES. 

Do YOU know the country where the eglan- 
tine blossoms? Come and rest there your 
eyes, wearied with these sad scenes ; come and 
heal your wounded heart. There you will 
find nought but smiling pictures ; there you 
can forget the world of the wicked. 

Let us enter again into the sacred refuge of 
piety and childhood. Let us join in the 
games of the young scholars, and, listening to 
their joyous songs and gay laughter, let us 
lose ourselves in this tumultuous swarm. It 
does not take long to find, our sweet Mignon, 
whose graceful form moves among her com- 
panions. How she has grown and improved 
beneath this tutelary shelter. Her color is 
more brilliant, her eyes more limpid, her lips 
more smiling, and her step more sprightly; 
for she has now enjoyed for more than a year 
this profound repose, and has seen herself sur- 
rounded with friendly faces. 


MIGNON. 


127 


For more than a year has her softness and 
grace adorned this house, where her presence 
seems indispensable. 

The Superior, Madame Theresa, touched by 
her sad history, the details of which she has 
learned through the lawyer, who often comes 
to inquire after Mignon, surrounds her with 
kind attention, and always keeps her in her 
own society. 

But how comes it that we do not so easily 
find the feeble and awkward Graziella ? It 
is, perhaps, because we cannot recognize her, 
for she must be there, at the siae of her little 
mother ; and look, there she is ! 

But what a happy change ! Speech is the 
only faculty wanting. But it cannot be said 
that she is pretty; her frank feaitures, sur- 
rounded with short curls, resembles more 
those of a boy than a girl ; but what life in all 
her movements! what sprightliness in her 
step ! what intelligence in her light eyes I Is 
it Mignon again who has worked this mira- 
cle? Yes, Mignon has triumphed over this 
indifference — has discovered a taste, a passion 
in Graziella ; she has aided the development 
of her mind by taking care of her, and help- 
ing her in her first essays. 


128 


MIGNON. 


The heart is such a skillful master ! Mig- 
noil, who had seriously undertaken her mater- 
nal duties, superintended the studies of Gra- 
ziella, who, owing to her infirmity, required 
special care, and who, thanks to this encour- 
agement, finally began to make some pro- 
gress. 

She made her learn her lessons, but Grazi- 
ella could not repeat them like the rest. Then, 
Mignon would take the book, and the child 
would have to write from memory what she 
had learned. Mignon watched, overlooked 
no bad habits, straightened up the figure of 
the child, who lounged on the table, would 
not excuse her scrawls, and wished her to take 
an interest in all she did, convinced that one 
negligence would bring on another. 

Her remonstrances were so - gently made, 
that Graziella, after a short resistance, kissed 
her, as if to ask pardon, and in order to please 
her little mother, renewed her efforts. 

What a pretty group — so natural and art- 
less! The gravity of the young girl — the 
pouting air of the child, and a kiss serving 
from time to time as an interpreter to a pre 
cept. The artist who could have seen them 
thus, would have taken up his pencils to 
sketch the interesting scene. 


MIGNOK. 


129 


MignoTi sometimes got angry — yes, very 
angry. She had accustomed Graziella to take 
care of her clothes, to no longer soil her hands 
and face, and had already obser^^ed some pro- 
gress in her little rebel. 

One day Graziella commenced to write, 
with her hands covered with a yellowish mud, 
and as she had fingered her face, her fore- 
head and cheeks were tatooed with yellow 
streaks. She was really frightful, and poor 
rMignon was discouraged. 

“ My child,” said she, “ surely, you love 
your mother no longer; I see it now. You 
will not listen to what I say ; you give Mig- 
non a great deal of trouble.” 

Graziella took her hand, as if to ask from 
whence came this reproach. 

“ Look at your hands, naughty child !” said 
Mignon. “Here, you are as untidy as the 
day I found you at the foot of the large plan- 
tains, with your hands in the dirt. Your dress 
is covered, and if you could only see your 
face ! Go, you do not love me any more.” 

Graziella, miserable, knelt down to beg 
pardon. Then a new idea seemed to strike 
her. She glanced around the class-room 
where she was working with Mignon, and 


130 


MIGNON. 


saw they were alone. Then she made a sig 
nal, putting her finger on her lips, as if to bei> 
her to say nothing, and to wait a little longer 
before condemning her, and ran out of the 
room. 

Mignon was at a loss to account for her con 
duct, when she saw her coming back, bring- 
ing with her a small basket, from which she 
took several misshapen objects, which she 
commenced to arrange on the table. 

On close examination, Mignon, however, 
remarked the care and skill with Avhich these 
little figures were modeled in coarse clay. 
One could distinguish a nun walking, with a 
book in her hand, which she was reading at- 
tentively. In another personage, one could 
not mistake the old portress, with crooked 
form and wrinkled face, counting her bunch 
of keys. 

Then Graziella took with respect a little 
group, representing a reclining woman with a 
child kneeling near her, and looking at Mig- 
non, she repeated sadly : Mother. 

Then there, she made a sign as if to an- 

nounce something more lugubrious, and drew 
from the basket another object. It represen- 
ted a mound of earth with some bushes of cy- 


MIGNON. 


131 


press delicately executed. The mound was 
surrounded with two little crosses, and Gra- 
kella, taking the hand of Mignon, made her 
read at the foot this inscription : “ To my fa- 
ther ; to my mother P'^ and the courageous 
child could hardly keep from crying. 

“ Poor child ! poor little thing !” said Mig- 
non ; is it you that thought of and made all 
that ! And who taught you ? how did you do 

itr 

Graziella arose, and pointed to her forehead 
with a sort of pride, then placed her hand on 
her heart with a sad expression; then, rum- 
aging again at the bottom of her dear basket, 
she pulled out, like a treasure, a little lump 
of brown, wet clay, which she held carefully 
on her breast, soiling herselt more than ever. 

Yes it was indeed the secret desire, the 
passionate task for srt which occupied this 
young intelligence that was supposed extinct; 
it was the necessity of imitating the work of 
her father, that had captivated and absorbed 
all her instincts; it was a hidden homage of- 
fered to the deserted hearthstone. 

A sort of bashfulness of feeling iiad pre- 
vented her recalling before her companions her 
dearest souvenirs^ for fear ot their mockery. 


132 


MIGNON. 


Her natural temerity caused lier to hide from 
every one her essays, which she still consid- 
ered too clumsy. 

When she was seen at the foot of the trees, 
plastering the wet earth alone, no one dreamed 
of the efforts she made to perfect her first at- 
tempts. The heavy rains had left, in a shady 
alley, a soft, sticky mud, most favorable to her 
designs, and she had scraped it up like the 
most precious of treasures. Such was the 
cause of the strange disorder of her toilet. 

Hothing less was wanting than the confi- 
dence inspired by the tender look and caress- 
ing voice of Mignon ; nothing less was want- 
ing than the desire to see herself justified be- 
fore her gentle protectress, and to obtain her 
forgiveness, in order to decide her to make 
this avowal. Mignon was too happy. She 
embraced Graziella with tenderness, without 
thinking of her muddy hands and tatooed 
face. 

“ Dear child,” said she, with emotion, you 
loved your father then very much ? And 1 
also have lost all— all. We are both alone and 
forsaken, and should love each other all the 
more. It was to think always of him, was it , 
not, dear child, that with your inexperienced 


MIGNON. 


133 


hand, you tried to imitate what you saw him 
do? What a good inspiration! You must 
take courage — I will assist you. Why did 
you not tell me sooner, simple child !” 

And she embraced her again ; then she ex- 
amined with more attention the little figures 
before her. and was astonished at seeing what 
the will and heart could accomplish without 
any other resources whatever. The little mute, 
whom her secret suffocated, was delighted 
with the encouragement she received from her 
dear confidante^ and expressed her gratitude 
by a thousand caresses. 

Mignon knew the history of Graziella. She 
often thought of the future of this child, whom 
misfortune had attached to her own destiny, 
and she had not the heart to abandon her. It 
seemed as though Providence had confided 
her to her; after what she had seen, she could 
not doubt her great facility and real talent, 
and she perceived with joy the means of pro 
curing her useful employment, by which she 
could be occupied, notwithstanding her infir- 
mity. 

Mignon, who drew with taste, now gave 
her every day lessons in drawing, provided 
her with means to model, potter’s earth, chisels 


134 


MIONON. 


of every sort, and little models in terra cotta 
to copy from ; she obtained from the good Su- 
perior, who entered willingly into ail her de- 
signs, permission for Graziella to have her lit- 
tle studio in a deserted shed which overlooked 
the court. 

From this day forth, Graziella was another 
being ; she no longer was depressed and mel- 
ancholy ; she no longer had dirty hands ; she 
handled her chisels with dexterity, to give 
every shape to this precious brown earth with 
which they provided her. She had a pleas- 
ing little countenance — happiness giving her 
a prettier expression— and her gratitude for 
her little mother bordered on adoration. 

Although she had no other master than na- 
ture and her own ardent will, she made, for 
so tender an age, astonishing progress, and on 
the day of the Feast of the Assumption, which 
is a great day at the Convent of the Augustin- 
ians, she gave a touching proof of her intelli- 
gence and savoir faire. 

It was the custom on that day to erect a 
beautiful tabernacle in the reserved orchard 
at the end of the plantain court. On leaving 
the chapel, all the scholars, in veils and white 
dresses, went in procession to the orchard, 


MIGNON. 


135 


singing canticles, and carrying fresh bouquets 
of flowers, which they piled in a rich pyramid 
at the feet of a statue of the Virgin. 

They had well stripped the forest bushes, 
to spread a thick green carpet up to the taber- 
nacle ; they had dressed the statue in a splen- 
did brocade robe, which fell in stifi*, straight 
folds, as is seen in the churches of Angers. 
They had adorned her brow with a sparkling 
diadem ; but the head of the Virgin Mary, it 
must be confessed, had suffered much from 
the inclemency of the seasons, and was no 
longer worthy of this adornment. Judge, 
then, of the surprise and astonishment when, 
on the morning of the Assumption, beneath 
the crown of the Yirgin Mary, was seen an 
angelic countenance, which seemed to look 
down with a sweet smile upon those gathered 
around. 

All were amazed; the old portress began 
to cry out something about a ‘‘ miracle,” a 
“miracle,” and such it was — a miracle of 
friendship and gratitude. Graziella, aided by 
a few companions and a nun who was in the 
secret, had replaced the damaged head-piece 
by a charming face, which recalled the noble 
and soft features of Mignon. It was the 


136 


MIGNON. 


purest type that her Iieart could suggest to 
her as a fit representation of the holiest of 
Yirgins. The work was doubtless not 'rre- 
proachable, yet the expression was excellent. 
It gave reason to hope that Graziella, by her 
efforts, would one day become a really good 
artist. 

After this lovely feast of the Virgin, the 
studies are relaxed, if not suspended. The va- 
cations draw near. How is the time for the 
long promenades in the most sequestered 
parts of the fair old forest. With what en- 
thusiastic ardor childhood and youth plunge 
into the woods, and lose themselves in the 
shades of the. tall trees ! Do you remember 
that? Does it not seem as if those young 
girls were taking possession of their empire? 
Heaven and earth are theirs ; theirs is the 
breeze that passes by ; theirs are the tall grass, 
the bushes and the flowers ! The soft moss 
tempts them ; the birds call them ; where 
shall they run first ? What discoveries ; what 
cries of joy ; how many paths chosen, aban- 
doned and recovered ! how many butterflies 
pursued and outstripped ! What beautiful 
golden insects nestle in the eglantines ! Do 
not wake them, children, they are sleeping ! 


MIQNON. 


137 


How beautiful the tall woods are when tliey 
are animated by the young explorers ! How 
beautiful the young girls are when they ram- 
ble through the tall woods ! 

There is the group of botanists — each one 
is provided with her satchel ; a sb'llful nun 
teaches how to recognize the herbs ; from the 
oak to the hyssop, each tree, each plant has 
its virtues. The treasures of the forest are 
more abundant and more precious than those 
hidden in the bowels of the earth, for plants 
give life, while the thirst for gold often de- 
stroys. He who knew every property of the 
plants; who knew all that can be drawn 
from flowers, stems, fruits and roots, would 
be richer than a king, and almost as wise as 
God himself. How many mysteries are still 
hidden from us ! There is, then, no recreation 
more attractive, more salutary, more fruitful 
in unexpected discoveries, than the study of 
botany. While some, with all the zeal of 
their age, busy themselves with seeking and 
classifying the herbs, careMly selecting the 
chosen specimens of each plant, others indulge 
in their games. 

In one of the most beautiful parts of the 
forest, called the “ Retreat,” there are broad 


138 


MIONON. 


and splendid alleys, carpeted with moss and a 
grass as fine and soft as the hair of a child ; 
immense and venerable trees cast over this 
vast space a dim twilight, and impart a fresh- 
ness to the atmosphere. It was a real theatre 
of flowers; thick bushes formed natural 
scenery ; the back ground was vaporous and 
full of mystery ; the gentle declivity of the 
ground forms a velvet carpeted amphitheatre 
for the spectators. Do you not hear the or- 
chestre of linnets and nightingales ? 

What a pleasing sight, to see the grave Su- 
perior seated in the midst of the nuns, with 
the attentive pupils grouped below them, while 
some of them, more intelligent or skillful than 
the rest, represent in this vast theatre either a 
scene from the Old Testament, such as the 
history of Ruth and ISTaomi, or Rebecca and 
Eleazar, or else an historical souvenir^ such as 
the inspiration of Jeanne d’ Arc, or the devo- 
tion of St. Genevieve I 

The good Superior, with her just and im- 
partial mind, liked to see, in the retreat of the 
convent, or the depths of the forest, these 
young minds representing, without any prepa- 
ration of costume or scenery, these different 
dramas. It seemed to her that these innocent 


MIGNON. 


139 


essays taught them how to express their 
thoughts with clearness, and to condense them 
in few words ; she liked to see them reproduce 
the pastorales^ like those that Paul and 

Virginia attempted, beneath the banana- 
trees, before Madame de la Tour Margue- 
rite. 

Mignon excelled in these improvisations, 
because she was intelligent, but above all, be- 
cause she was simple and natural. Timidity 
comes generally from vanity, and from the in- 
ordinate desire to produce a great effect : but 
the charming Mignon, when charged with act- 
ing a certain part, simply put herself in the 
place of the personage— spoke and acted as 
she would have spoken and acted in similar 
circumstances; she became this person, and 
was moved by the sentiments which she would 
have felt. 

She produced a wonderful impression by 
her words and gestures, so full of truth ; her 
secret was simply that she was touched her- 
self. 

We remember having seen her represent an 
interesting scene, in which she revealed all 
her talent and grace. The theatre was most 
favorable to the piece, and the accessories were 


140 


MIGNON. 


not wanting. It was called “ The Miracle of 
Roses.” 

To execute this simple scene, which always 
amused the children, it was first necessary to 
put the entire joyous band en campagne. It 
was the great harvest of eglantines. But the 
bushes are so generous ! The little forest roses 
at each step show their smiling faces ; and 
how many of these beautiful white, rosy or 
scarlet stars are never seen — never looked 
upon! They are veiled beneath the shady 
branch, as brilliant and as perfectly executed 
by the divine hand, as if each of them were to 
be examined and admired as a masterpiece, and 
yet, no one has seen them ; but God has sown 
them without counting, as He has sown the 
daisies in the meadows, the corn flowers in 
the corn, the good instincts in the heart, and 
the stars in the sky. 

On that day, no mercy for the eglantines. 
Oh, what a splendid harvest I Gather, gather, 
young girls 1 Carry in your arms the branches 
of white stars; there still remains more of 
them, and will ever remain, as will the smiles 
and kisses of your mothers; there will ahvavs 
be more left behind, for God gives without 
stint. Gather, gather, young sprites ! 


MIGNON. 


141 


But the harvest is over ; the piece is about 
to commence ; the spectators are waiting ; the 
actresses are behind the green scenery ; three 
blows are struck with the hand, and all is 
ready. 

May we be pardoned a short analysis, which 
we will abridge as much as possible to arrive 
at the denouement^ allowing each person to 
improvise her part without pretention, and 
according to her own fashion, except altering 
somewhat the pure text of the golden legend, 
from which is borrowed this naive and grace- 
ful scene ? 

Saint Elizabeth is first seen, followed by 
her women, distributing clothes and food to 
the poor and sick, addressing them at the same 
time with consoling words. Elizabeth is no 
other than the gentle Mignon. Her beautiful 
brow is adorned with a crown of roses ; the 
train of her mantle is borne by her page, Gra- 
ziella. The poor and sick withdraw, blessing 
her. 

At the same instant, her august husband 
appears, represented by a large girl with ma- 
jestic step ; his hat is ornamented with a 
branch of cypress, and a wand of hazel wood 
is his powerful sword. The landgrave speaks 


142 


MIGNON. 


loudly, and reproaches Elizabeth for her prod- 
igality ; he complains at seeing his wealth dis- 
appearing, and orders that, for the future, no 
distribution of alms shall take place without 
his permission. Elizabeth pleads with warmth 
and in a supplicating voice, the cause of the 
unfortunate. Her husband is inflexible, and 
retires, repeating his orders. Elizabeth, alone, 
deplores the cruel severity of the landgrave, 
and addresses a prayer to God that he may 
be recalled to better sentiments. 

Meanwhile, one of the women informs her 
that a band of poor people, who have lost 
everything by the burning of their village, 
and dying with hunger, are wandering before 
the castle door, begging their bread. 

“ My Lord !” says Elizabeth, “ it is you who 
send them to me for succor. You do not 
wish me to leave them to perish, without aid, 
at the door of a castle wherein abundance 
reigns. You will pardon me for disobeying 
my husband again. I am ready to prove him 
my submission in every other circumstance, 
and I will deprive myself of all to compen- 
sate for this liberality.” 

She then orders her page to bring a large 
quantity of bread, and to collect cleverly to- 


MIGJSrON. 


143 


gether all he can find in the castle. Her or- 
ders are executed, and this bread, which is the 
scholars’ supper, is brought to the feet of Eliz- 
abeth. 

She ostensibly fills her mantle with it, and 
orders her women to hide some under their 
garments ; then, addressing another prayer to 
heaven, and passing behind a. bush that is on 
the theatre, she looks around with precaution 
to see whether she is not observed, and pre- 
pares to retire, ordering her women to follow 
lier, in order to bring prompt aid to the suf- 
ferers without. 

It is then that the terrible landgrave reap- 
pears. 

“Stop!” cries he, “rebellious wife! You 
are preparing again, I know it, to transgress 
and despise my orders. Charity serves you 
as a pretext to forego the first of your duties ; 
but if you have ventured to disobey me again, 
fear my wrath.” 

General terror. The women remain silent 
and motionless. 

“What have you there under your man- 
tle ?” says the landgrave, in a severe voice, to 
one of the attendants, who appears more 
heavily laden than the rest. 


144 


MIGNON. 


“ My lord,” says the maiden, hesitatingly, 
after having exchanged a look with Elizabeth, 
“ it is roses, which we have gathered to make 
perfume with.” 

“Let us see these fine roses,” says the land- 
grave, ironically, roughly shaking the cloak 
of the servant. 

And the blooming eglantines fall in show- 
ers at her feet. Elizabeth and all her women 
appear very much astonished, tremblingly un- 
fold their mantles, and a shower of floweis 
cover the stage like an abundant fall of snow. 

The landgrave retires in great confusion, 
and Saint Elizabeth, who thought herself lost, 
throws herself on her knees, with her follow- 
ers, to thank heaven for the protection it has 
accorded them through the Miracle of Roses, 

W ell 1 the result was certainly provided for. 
The children had lent their bread, and had 
gathered the eglantines ; they could not doubt 
the substitution which took place in passing 
behind the back, and yet, the effect on this 
young audience was immense when the beau- 
tiful and radiant countenance of Mignon ap- 
peared thanking God, up to her knees in a 
cloud of snow-white roses ; the children all 
applauded, and were happy at thus seeing the 


MIGNON. 


145 


generous Elizabeth escape from the fury of 
the terrible landgrave; then each one took 
back her bread for her supper. 

But on that day, Mignon found in her heart 
another inspiration, and having asked permis- 
sion of the Superior in an undertone, she an- 
nounced to all that she was about to work 
another miracle. 

She had observed behind the trees a miser- 
able, homeless family, who watched their 
plays with great sadness ; she, therefore, re- 
appeared, carrying in her skirt a heavy bur- 
den, from which fell a great quantity of roses, 
and beckoned to the poor woman, who was 
standing near the alley, to come towards her. 

She was a young woman from Alsace, and 
appeared very much fatigued ; she carried a 
small baby, another following her, with diffi- 
culty clinging to her dress ; two little girls 
walked in front. How much these poor creat- 
ures had already suffered ! 

‘‘My dear child, would you like some for- 
est roses said Mignon, in her gentle voice, 
embracing the eldest child with compassion. 

“ Oh ! forest roses, ma’am,” said, sadly, the 
child, with her hair as blond as the ripened 
wheat ; “ there are enough of them along the 


14:6 


MIGNON. 


roadside ; it is bread we want. Our father is 
ill, we have a long waj to go to get to him, 
and we are very hungry !” 

“Well! child,” said Mignon, “why doubt 
Providence ? Breathe only on these roses.” 

The child, looking at Mignon with the con- 
fidence which her charming countenance al- 
ways inspired, but appearing still to hesitate, 
breathed, smilingly, on the mantle. 

Then Mignon unfolded her skirt, and twelve 
pieces of bread fell at her feet, mingled with 
roses, and accompanied by a purse containing 
some pieces of money, which were to help 
this unhappy family to continue their voy- 
age. 

This new miracle was more applauded than 
the first. The poor woman thanked the good 
angel who gave her her days’ bread ; she saluted 
the nuns and children, by showing them her 
little infant, who smiled ; and Mignon found 
thus occasion to show the treasures of her 
heart, even in her games. 


MIGNON-. 


147 


XI. 

THE PARDON. 

Maurice de Terrenoire, too conscientious 
to allow his feelings to cause him to neglect 
his duty, worked away with redoubled araor. 
He forwarded to the minister the result of his 
studies in Tuscany and Lombardy, and re- 
ceived testimonials of satisfaction which would 
have flattered his vanity, if such a sentiment 
could have found room in a heart occupied by 
totally dilferent feelings. 

He saw in the advancement of his position 
but another feeble hope of uniting his future 
with her who occupied his every thought. He 
foresaw the happy day when, his labors fin- 
ished, he could return to France, and devote 
himself entirely to the two beings his mission 
it was to protect. 

Meanwhile, he only lived on the news from 
home. Mr. Henard’s letters had to be writ- 
ten more and more minutely. The excellent 
and ofiicious lawyer amused himself more and 
more with this little romance, which he hoped 


148 


MIGNON. 


to bring to a good issue. As he had his coun- 
try house at Fourqueny, very near St. Ger- 
main, he was able to hear and prove every- 
thing by frequent visits, and lie did not spare 
the details in his correspondence ; it was for 
him a charming distraction after the dull, 
prosy routine of , his duties as notary. In his 
letters, Theresa was only spoken of by the 
name of Mignon ; he had adopted, like every 
one else, the new name of the orphan. This 
pretty name, so soft to pronounce, made the 
grave Maurice sometimes smile ; this name 
presented itself under his pen during his stern 
and solitary occupations, and, perhaps, in his 
slumber it dwelt upon his lips. The lovely 
countenance of Mignon was his ideal. It is 
an uncertain goal like this that gives so much 
courage. 

There was particularly one circumstance 
which appeared so Providential to him, and 
which complied so perfectly with his dearest 
wishes, that he was touched and charmed with 
it. He knew by the letters of Mr. Eenard, 
(real journal of the convent), that Mignon had 
become the mother of Graziella, and that un- 
der the happy influence of so tender a friend- 
ship, the talent of the little mute for sculpture 
had been developed. 


MIGNOK-. 


149 


What beautiful dreams passed before his 
eyes, sometimes, during his long hours of soli- 
tude! How he congratulated himself on hav- 
ing saved intact the studio of Marx ! He fan- 
cied he saw the gentle Mignon leading again 
some day the poor child into the studio of her 
father, and securing to her an existence doubly 
sure, for, perhaps, he would be there him- 
self. His imagination lost itself in these se- 
ductive visions of an unknown future. 

He could no longer keep silent ; he wished 
to prepare Mignon for his return, but he feared 
either to say too much or too little. He tore 
up several letters in which his feelings were 
too apparent. To speak of Mignon, could he 
do so ? To speak of himself, would that in- 
terest Mignon ? Graziella appeared to fur- 
nish him with an excellent pretext for his 
correspondence, and Mignon received one day, 
in the presence of the Superior, and through 
the intervention of Mr. Kenard, a letter dated 
Florence. 

The sight of this letter was for her the most 
important event of her convent life. The Su- 
perior saw her blush ; then she became as 
white as a sheet of paper, and was obliged to 
sit down. She was not mistress of this first 
impression, but soon took courage. 


150 


MIGNOK 


“ What is there more simple said she, 
trying to reason with herself ; “ this is the 
friend to whom my father recommended me, 
who writes me, after a lapse of a year, to ask 
me how I am, and, perhaps, to talk on busi- 
ness. There can be no other transaction be- 
tween us ; his silence has proven to me his in- 
difference, and, besides, everything separates 
us. Why, then, should I be more affected by 
this letter than by any other 

And recovering her hrnviess, she opened 
the letter, and read the following : 

“ Mt Dear Consm, Theresa : — You must 
not attribute the silence which I have main- 
tained either to indifference or forgetfulness. 
If a feeling of respect imposed this reserve 
upon me, believe, at least, I beg of you, that 
your good father, in recommending you to my 
care, put his confidence in a sincere heart. I 
have mourned with you for him we liave lost. 
I have promised myself to consecrate my life 
in replacing him ; and, detained here by duty, 
I have not ceased, (I hope your friendship will 
permit it), I have not ceased occupying myself 
with you. 

“ A devoted friend has informed me of all 


MIGNON. 


151 


you suffered in the paternal house, and from 
afar I watched over you. It was to deliver 
you from this martyrdom that I, by covert 
means, induced your stepmother to decide on 
sending you to a convent, where 1 hoped you 
would be happy. Will you pardon my hav- 
ing thus disposed of you ? 

“With what happiness did I learn that you 
were cherished in this retreat ! Nothing that 
concerns you is unknown to me. Mignon, let 
me give you this sweet name which those give 
you who love you most ; this name will cause 
you to forget the times in which you suffered 
so much. Permit me to become your adviser 
— your brother — your protector. Will you 
give me your confidence, Mignon? We shall, 
perhaps, find less hitter days in our past mem- 
ories — and ha"^e we not another tie besides 
our recollections? Our hearts are united, 
without your knowing it, in consoling a great 
affliction. Yes, it was the purest of joys 
which I felt, far from you, when I learned 
that your tenderness had been directed to- 
wards the abandoned little being near you, as 
if from an instinct of our mutual friendship. 
The father of Oraziella was my most intimate 
friend — ^he perished before gathering the fruit 


152 


MIGNON. 


of his talent and labor. When I heard of the 
misfortune of this family, I wished at least to 
secure and protect this poor child, and it is bj 
my care that she is brought up at the Convent 
of the Augustinians. 

“Imagine my joy, Mignon, when I heard 
that your gentle friendship had triumphed 
over her indifference and apparent apathy; 
and that under your care, her vocation of ar- 
tist had been revealed and developed. You 
are at present my associate in this good work, 
to which you have contributed more than mv 
self. Will we not have the happiness of 
watching over our little mute together ? I re- 
serve for her, in my turn, a surprise which 
will please you I am sure. 

“ What a good inspiration prompted me to 
unite in the same refuge the two beings I most 
dearly love to protect ! I could not inspire 
your friendsh'p for Graziella, but do you not 
find, Mignon, something Providential in this 
affection which attaches this little creature to 
us both ? 

“ I am sure at present of addressing myself 
to your heart ; I only speak to you of the dear 
child that you have adopted. I am certain 
that this will touch you. Take good care of 


MIGNON. 


• 153 


her for me. 1 hope to be soon on my way 
home, and then will tell you all my plans. 
You will rejoice with me at the good we can 
yet do together. 

“ How kind you would be if you would re- 
ply to me by a few lines ! if it is only to tell 
me that you still remember our friendship, 
and that our j^rotegee will belong to us 
both. 

“ Believe in the unalterable attachment of 
your devoted friend, 

Maurice de Teeeenoire.” 

Mignon re-read this two or three times over 
before fully understanding it. It seemed to 
her as though she had omitted something in 
reading so fast. She convinced herself that 
Maurice, in this long letter, had not said a 
word of his marriage. She was surprised at 
this silence on so important a step in his life. 
It was for her a grave subject of meditation ; 
then she tried to chase away the idea as well 
as all the others which crowded on her mind. 
She only wished to see in this letter that 
which was there written, viz: the assurance 
of a sincere attachment, and the proof of a 
generous heart. She felt a great joy in learn- 


154 


MIGNON. 


ing that Graziella was like an adoptive child 
to Maurice ; she admired the fortunate chance 
that had drawn this unhappy creature to her 
heart. Graziella became dearer to her than 
ever, and the child did not understand why 
she was embraced with more than ordinary 
tenderness. 

She was touched at finding that Maurice 
was informed almost day by day of all her oc- 
cupations. She loved to feel herself under 
his infiuence, and nearly in his power. But 
she could not comprehend how Maurice had 
been able to infiuence her stepmother, from 
afar, in the choice of a convent ; for she well 
knew, at the bottom of her heart, what had 
decided Tier to seek a refuge here. 

Then her thought fixed upon the printed 
letter which had been placed before her eyes, 
of which she had not forgotten a line ; she al- 
most doubted sometimes what she had seen, 
and fancied herself a prey to some hallucina- 
tion. But she did not wish to indulge in these 
uncertainties, and changed the tenor of her 
thoughts by force of will, and only dreamed 
of the views of Maurice concerning Grazi- 
ella ; of the surprise he had in store for her, 
and in which she, Mignon, was destined to 
take part. 


MIGNON. 


155 


It was for her also an aim in life. She 
waited for the return of Maurice with impa- 
tience. She well felt she could not avoid re- 
plying to him, and, notwithstanding all the 
simplicity of her nature, it was not without 
some, embarrassment that she wrote the follow- 
ing lines : 

“ Youk silence was painful for me, but 1 
could not blame you ; I well knew that from 
friendship for my father you would not forget 
Mignon. But I supposed that you were occu- 
pied with other cares, and I regretted not 
knowing anything of what concerned you, for 
you told me nothing, Maurice, either of your- 
self or your habits. 

“ I love Graziella more than ever now that 
I know she interests you ; she has made great 
progress, and I shall he most happy to asso- 
ciate myself in any surprise that you have in 
store for this dear child. I am so well off in 
this house that you have chosen for me, that 
I hope to remain here always, but in order to 
obey the last wishes of my father, I am ready 
to consult you in all things. 

“ Yes, I wish you to call me Mignon, for 
with this name 1 commenced a new life. I 


156 


MIGNON. 


have reflected well, and it seems me to that I 
should like to pass my existence in this con- 
vent, near Madame Theresa, our worthy Su- 
perior, who is a mother to me. I could assist 
her in bringing up the children, and, perhaps, 
could succeed in rendering myself useful. 
Since I have been separated from my sisters, 
nothing recalls me to a world where, as you 
know, I was not happy ; but you must give 
me your permission in this particular, for I 
like to count on you as an adviser, and brother, 
and a guide. 

“ Believe in my sincere 'friendship. 

“P. S. — The name of Maurice was the last 
word my good father addressed me.” 

Maurice, on receiving this letter, imitated 
Mignon : read it over repeatedly to find out 
its full meaning. Conflicting feelings were 
awakened within him on perusing it. He 
liked this mild reproach : “ I regretted not 
knowing any thing of what concerned you, for 
you told me nothing either of yourself or your 
habits.” 

He perceived with joy that the friendship 
of Mignon for Graziella had become warmer 
since he had written her that this child was 


MIGNON. 


157 


•dear to him. He was touched with the con- 
fidence that Mignon showed him in promising 
to consult him in everything ; but why did 
Mignon talk of secluding herself for life in a 
convent where he had only intended she should 
find a temporary refuge? Had she then 
wrongly interpreted his intentions ? Did she 
suppose he had wished to give her a taste for 
a religious life, in placing her with the Au- 
gustinians ? 

That was the cause of his uneasiness. 
Therefore, promptly finishing his business in 
Tuscany and Lombardy, he hastened towards 
France. However, the postscript, which they 
say contains the most intimate thought of a 
letter, either hidden or expressed, always was 
uppermost in his thoughts : “ The name of 
Maurice was the last word my good father ad- 
dressed me !” 

Let us leave Maurice, busied in his reflec- 
tions, to continue his journey, and let us see 
what has become of the Crevecoeur establish- 
ment under the management of the widow. 

Has Madame Crevecoeur at last found re- 
pose in removing, far from her, her inoffensive 
stepdaughter, whose sight recalled too vividly 
to her mind all that she wished to forget? 


158 


MIGNON. 


No ; this agitation sprang from the character 
itself of this haughty woman, and it was not 
the absence of a child that could calm it. To 
forget herself, she plunged into a vortex of 
luxury and extravagance. She heeded less 
than ever the advice of the prudent Mr. Ren- 
ard ; she thought to make many friends in at- 
tracting a crowd of parasites ; she thought 
she would belong to the grand monde in see- 
ing a great deal of society; she tried to 
cause people to forget she sold stuffs, by wear- 
ing finer and richer toilettes than any of the 
women who came to amuse themselves with 
her prodigality. As for business, she left that 
to the clerks, with whom the 0013^^ intercourse 
she had, was to call unceasingly for more 
money. 

Pressed for want of funds, she tried to bor- 
row, but could not give suflficient security. 
She then wished to sell her house and country 
seat, but was told she could not dispose of this 
property. This resistance to her will enraged 
her. Business people, ordinaril}^ rather pa- 
tient in their transactions, in order to keep up 
their patronage, at last could no longer put 
up with her exactions. The imperturbable 
Mr. Benard was the only one left to listen to 


MIGNON. 


159 


her imprecations, and to offer her hollow con- 
solation. 

The vigorous health of Madame Crevecoeur 
gave way under such exciting scenes. Her 
face became purple ; her heated blood rushed 
to her head, and nearly suffocated her. The 
doctor that was sent for, ordered immediately 
a powerful remedy ; she resisted all his pre- 
scriptions. 

He retired, making a low bow, and was re- 
placed by another, who was no more success- 
ful. She called for her servants without any 
motive, and dismissed them with impatience. 
The chambermaids were on nettles ; no nurse 
could stay near her. 

What had become of all ^the attentive 
friends that had filled her splendid saloons ? 
Where were her companions of pleasure? 
Even her own family deserted her. The hon 
est Mr. Morin could not forgive her her in- 
gratitude to so good a man, or the neglect 
that she showed her stepdaughter. In what 
a state was this house, formerly so prosper- 
ous ? What disorder ; what quarreling among 
the servants ; what pilfering ; what absence 
of care for the children! Who will take 
cnarge of this house ? Who will give the or 


160 


MIGNON. 


1 


ders ? Who will regulate the expenses ? She 
did not even dare have recourse to her fam- 

ily- 

One day, when the invalid was more ex- 
cited than ever, the doctor considered it his 
duty to give her to understand, with all the' 
necessary precaution, that it was, perhaps, 
time to regulate her conscience ; he assured 
her she was in no danger, but that the conso- 
lation of religion would, perhaps, give some 
calm to her mind. 

“ A priest !” cried she, beside herself, sit- 
ting up in bed ; “ a priest for me ! But I will 
not die ! Y on must save me ; it is very easy 
to put me off on a priest. Are you not paid 
to cure me — y(fu, a doctor ? Don’t bring any 
priest ! I’m afraid of them ! I’m afraid !” 

She was really hideous thus, and tell back 
insensible in the bed. Yes, this woman might 
well be afraid when she thought of all the 
ruin, and all the suffering her selfishness had 
accumulated around her. She did not want 
to tell a minister of the Lord the state of her 
soul ; but sickness began to subdue her, and 
in the silence of the night she found herself in 
the presence of a witness before whom she had 
to confess all ; the spectre of Conscience. In 


MIGNOIf. 


161 


the forsaken condition in which she found 
herself, she made the sad review of her past 
life. 

She saw herself a happy young maiden in 
her father’s house ; then gaining by her arti- 
fices the heart of an honest man ; then load- 
ing him with cares and misfortunes by her 
selfishness and avidity ; then driving from her 
house the stepdaughter she had promised to 
protect, and, finally, neglecting her own chil- 
dren, and conducting her whole household to 
ruin. 

“My God!” said she, (for she also invoked 
God, this woman who would not look at the 
sombre costume of a minister of religion), 
“ every one forsakes me ! Who will save me 
—who will take an interest in me ? Who will 
look after my children ? Who will have pity 
on me 

And a voice replied from the bottom of her 
heart, which was not entirely turned to stone, 
a voice replied : 

“ Yes, you know it well, there is still in the 
world a poor creature to whom you have done 
much evil ; whom you have covered with in- 
dignities ; whom you have separated from all 
that was dear to her ; whom you have driven 


162 


MIGNON, 


off, and whose heart you wounded when it 
touched for the last time the threshold of your 
house ; and you have only a word to say, you 
know it well, and that angel will be again at 
your bedside as humble, as gentle, and as de- 
voted as ever.” 

The name of this angel was Mignon, for 
Madame Crevecoeur knew her well, and in 
the depths of her conscience she had to do jus- 
tice to her victim. She felt she could not 
live in this way, and having begged her no- 
tary, Mr. Renard, to call and see her as soon 
as possible, she made a grand effort to say to 
him : 

“ I feel myself conquered by disease ; you 
have all forsaken me, and I only know of one 
being in the world who will still have com- 
passion on me. You know very well who it 
is, my stepdaughter. If I had any pride left, 
I would not expose myself to this humiliation ; 
but hasten, I beg of 3^011, and tell her I am dy- 
ing — abandoned— and that my children, her 
sisters, ask for her presence. She will come, 
I know it, the poor child will come to succor 
her who has driven her awaj^ I want no one 
but her near me.” 

Mr. Renard looked at her in silence. 


MIGNON. 


163 


“ Is it then necessary,” said lie to himself, 
“ that misfortune should strike, in order that 
the eyes may be opened, and light be given !” 

He almost pitied this arrogant woman, who 
now implored her whom she had trampled 
upon. 

“ But,” said he, ‘‘ you send me on a very 
delicate errand; will you at least assure me 
that you '^ill treat her with gentleness and 
consideration ; that no harsh word will issue 
from your lips, and that her little sisters will 
be placed under her care ? You must prom- 
ise me all that before I can go and disturb the 
quiet of this poor child, who suffered so 
much.” 

“ Go quickly,” said she, “ I promise every- 
thing ; but I must see her — time flies. I have, 
besides, an avowal to make which will inter- 
est her much.” 

On returning to his house, Mr. Benard 
found a line from Maurice de Terrenoire, who 
informed him that he had just arrived, and 
was waiting for him at his hotel. After the 
first effusions of friendship, their conversation 
turned upon Mignon. 

“I was just setting out for Saint Germain,” 
said the lawyer, “will you replace me? I 


164 


MTGNOi^. 


had a rather delicate proposition to make to . 
Mignon, about which she will, perhaps, de- i 
sire to consult you, for the aflair is serious.” 

He then explained to his friend the deplor- 
able state into which Madame Grevecceur had : 
fallen ; and after having deliberated with Mr. 
Kenard, Maurice set out alone for the Convent 
of the Augustinians. 

How his heart beat when he entered the 
parlor ! But his intentions were so upright 
and generous that he was able to tell every- 
thing without fear or embarrassment to Mad- 
ame Theresa, the Superior, who already knew 
him through the accounts of Mr. Benard. She 
had so much alfection for Mignon, that she 
already liked him who wished to be her sup- 
port in life, and replace her father. 

“ Madame,” said he, respectfully, “ you are 
already aware of my entire attachment for 
your amiable pupil — your dear Mignon. Her 
father, foreseeing his approaching end, and 
about to leave her without protection in the 
world, placed his confidence in me, and I have 
carefully preserved this letter, which 1 beg of 
you to read, for it explains my presence here 
— it gives me some right to occupy myself 
with Mignon’s future, and to consult you, 


MIGNON. 


165 


mad am e — you who received her with a good- 
ness so maternal.” 

‘‘ Mr. Maurice,” said the Superior, “ I know 
your admirable conduct. I know that it is tp 
your generosity that Graziella owes the fortu- 
nate position she occupies here near Mignon. 
Who would not listen to you with interest ? 
There is no necessity for my reading this let- 
ter, to know your merit ; however, since you 
desire it, I will lead it.” 

The letter contained only these words ; 

“My Dear Maurice: — I know you, al- 
though so youngj have all the wisdom and ex- 
perience of riper age. You have a noble 
heart, my friend, and it is to you, to your 
heart, that, feeling my end near, I wish to be- 
queath my dearest treasure — my beloved 
Theresa. Tours is the care of her future. If 
you have a liking for her — if she should ever 
love you as I have sometimes hoped — take her 
for your wife ; you have both my consent and 
my dearest wishes. From the resting place 
which awaits me, I would like to see united 
the two beings that have best repaid my 
tenderness. It seems to me that I shall live 
again in your midst. 


166 


MIGNON. 


“ But I know your delicacy ; you will not | 
make use of my aesire as a means of crossing !| 
her will, if indifference or any other sentiment L 
should influence her against you ; and, if you | 
should not become her husband, you will at | 
least be her father, her counsellor and her ! 
guide. You are responsible tome before God 1 
for her future. With this letter I remit the 
titles which ensure her fortune, not being able 
to place them in better hands. As for me, I 
feel it, I have but to die. 

“Adieu, Maurice; may you be happy. 

“ Aime Cuevecoeue.” 

“ Yes,” said the Superior, looking with re- 
spect at this letter that contained the last 
wishes of a dying man ; “ yes, you are indeed 
her father — you are everything to her. She 
is a sweet and charming creature ; what do 
you intend to do?” 

“ But, madame, can I detain you with the 
recital of my projects ? Does the austerity of 
your life permit you to take an interest in my 
concerns ?” 

“ Speak on, speak on,” said the Superior ; 

“ should I not follow m}?^ dear children to their 
entrance into the world? I do not forget 


MIGNON. 


167 


them when they have gone, and they do not 
forget me either ; for those who are married 
come often with their children to see me.” 

“Well, madame, as you are so encouraging, 
and as you realize so well the opinion I had 
formed of your noble character, it is you that 
I wish to ask whether Mignon really has a de- 
cided vocation for a convent life.” 

“I think not,” said Madame Theresa; 
“ this is the first I have hefird of it ; she has, 
I know, a gentle piety, but I have observed in 
her neither exaltation nor asceticism. Besides, 
we never encourage such inclinations ; a vo- 
cation must be very decided to inspire us with 
confidence. Young minds may easily be de- 
ceived as to their own feelings, and this would 
be a great misfortune. Our duty is to en- 
lighten them, and moderate their zeal. But 
why do we not call her ? You should see her 
by all means.” 

She, therefore, sent for Mignon. And which 
was the most touched of these two beings, 
who, perhaps, both felt the same sentiment, 
but who, for very different reasons, wished to 
hide them in the lowest depth of their hearts ? 

“ Dear Mignon,” said the Superior,. “here 
is the protector — the devoted friend your fa- 


168 


MIGNON. 


tlier left you ; lie will be a second parent to 
yon.” 

Mignon, trembling violently, offered her 
hand to Maurice. 

“ I know what I owe him,” said she, “ and 
will do nothing without his consent. My fa- 
ther gave me this direction in his last mo- 
ments.” 

‘‘ Mademoiselle,” said Maurice, keeping her 
hand in his, “ or, rather, dear Mignon, if you 
will allow me also to call you by this title of 
friendship, I have deeply regretted being de- 
tained so long away from France, and not be- 
ing able to take more care of you ; I know, 
however, that I have been well replaced by 
the gentle mother you have found here ; but 
you cannot stay here always, and I wish to 
consult you ” 

‘‘ Maurice,” said Mignon, interrupting him, 
and eagerly taking the hand of the Superior, 
“ you could find for me no better refuge ; I 
have thanked you for it often from the bottom 
of my heart. I have nothing to do in the 
world, as I have already told you. All that I 
have ever seen of it has given me pain — here 
I find peace. Oh ! madame, keep me with 
you ; I will try to make myself useful here.” 


MIGNON. 


169 


“ My child,” said the Superior, “ so impor- 
tant a resolution cannot be so q^uicklj made. 
You are formed for the world. You must 
have the courage to appear in it. We will 
talk of that later.” 

“ Yes, it is here that I would like to live,” 
said Mignon, “ if you will permit me, Mau- 
rice ; you whom my father directed me to 
obey as I would himself.” 

“ Well,” said Maurice, “ all I ask of you, 
Mignon, is not to be so hasty. Besides, you 
will be at liberty to do as you think best. I 
will not say anything to-day about Graziella ; 
I know all you have done for her. How could 
I thank you? Your recompense is in your 
own heart. 

“ But it is just to your heart that I wish 
now to address myself. I am charged with. a 
painful errand. I know all that your stepmo- 
ther has made you suffer. Well, she is now 
overwhelmed with misfortune and sickness ; 
abandoned by her friends, she has no confi- 
dence in those around her; but she knows 
you well, and implores your assistance. I 
hardly dare to tell you, Mignon, that it is you 
she desires to see at her bedside ; it is- from 
you alone that she wishes to receive attention. 


170 


MIGNON. 


She is waiting for you. Have you enough 
courage for this 

“ Oh ! yes,” said Mignon, without hesita- 
ting, “ yes, I will have the courage ; not a 
bitter word will issue from my lips. Let me 
go ; I ask it of you both, who have control 
over me; you, my mother of adoption, and 
you, Maurice, who are here as my father. 
Yes, my dear father would approve of it — I 
feel that he would ; let me fulfill this duty. 
Happy those who can render good for evil ! 
I shall then see my poor little sisters again ! 
It is, perhaps, God who sends me back to this 
house.” 

And she held out her hand to Maurice. 

How lovely Mignon was, with this fire of 
charity lighting up her eye ! How beautiful 
she was ! but it was the beauty of the soul, 
which transfigures and outshines, all other 
charms ; one saw only an angel of goodness. 
Maurice was, as it were, dazzled with this 
light ; he remained in speechless ecstasy. 

‘‘ Hearken to the good instincts of your 
heart, dear, very dear child,” said the Supe- 
rior, after a pause, “ and if Mr. Maurice con- 
sents, I myself will accompany you.” 

“ What a heart !” said Maurice, in a low 


MIGNON. 


in 


voice, holding Mignon’s hand in his. “ Thank 
you, Mignon! I had rightly judged yon ; you 
will again be the good angel of your father’s 
house ; but above all, take care of yourself, 
and do not undertake more than your strength 
will permit.” 

He left her, after asking permission to visit 
her at her stepmother’s house. 

The Superior and Mignon were conducted, 
towards evening, into the chamber of the sick 
woman. They entered softly ; a night-lamp 
threw a dim and flickering light on the con- 
fusion around. How Mignon’s heart sank 
within her ! 

Madame Crevecoeur was dozing, and the 
two visitors seated themselves silently at the 
bedside. When she opened her eyes, she was 
struck with the black dress of the nun. Her 
weak brain fancied it was a spectre. 

“ Mercy — pity !” cried she ; “ I am punished 
enough.” 

“Madame,” said the Superior, “here is 
Mignon — here is your stepdaughter whom you 
sent for, and who comes willingly, as a duti- 
ful child, to surround you with every care.” 

Madame Crevecoeur appeared to revive 
somewhat, and clasping her hands : 


172 


MIGNON. 


‘^Theresa/’ said she, “you are an angel! 
Oh, don’t be afraid of me ; come nearer — 
come ! I am saved if you do not leave me ; 
heaven will not strike me if you hold my hand. 
I knew you would come ; but,” she added 
with difficulty, “ you can love me no longer, 
I know that, too ; you do not even want to 
be called Theresa ; you call yourself Mignon, 
doubtless to forget your past life. But I, 
Mignon, am no longer your stepmother. I do 
not command now. I am only a poor sick 
woman, who has no more hope except in you. 
My strength is leaving me. While I still have 
the force to speak, and in the presence of 
inadame, I have a prayer to offer you ; the 
dying should be heard.” 

“Speak, my mother,” said Mignon. “I 
came to bring you assistance, and not to give 
you pain.” 

“Well,” said the invalid, with an effort, 
“promise me that you will forgive me, and 
that you will love my cliildren.” 

“ They are my sisters,” said Mignon ; “ I 
shall love them always ; as for the rest, all is 
forgotten.” 

The Superior retired, after having embraced 
her dear pupil, and giving her countless in 


MIGNON. 


1Y3 


junctions, and Mignon, commencing Iier func- 
tions of garde malade, watched with solicitude. 
The house soon assumed a difierent aspect. 
Calmness begets calmness; she commanded 
with gentleness, and the servants, captivated 
by this will, which resembled a prayer, obeyed 
with alacrity. 

Mignon joyfully embraced her little sisters, 
from whom she had so long been separated. 
They had entirely forgotten her teachings, 
and had somewhat relapsed into their savage 
state ; but her maternal care soon produced 
a change for the better. However, to relieve 
herself still more, she consulted with Mr. Een- 
ard and the Superior, who often came to see 
her, and as Madame Crevecoeur was no longer 
in a' condition to be consulted, it was agreed 
that the two eldest should be placed at the 
convent, while she kept the two little ones un- 
der her supervision. 

Madame Crevecoeur grew daily weaker. 
This fiery nature was subdued by suffering. 
She obeyed like a child. When she had some 
what recovered, Mignon read aloud to her 
some of the most beautiful pages of i\\^ Imita- 
tion of Christ. 

‘‘ That is very beautiful,” said the invalid, 


174 


MIGNON. 


as if astonished at the grandeur of these ideas. ; 
‘‘Very beautiful! Head it again, Mignon, ; 
your voice does me good. Then there is a i 
God who pardons the repentant My child, : 
I have been thinking these last few days can j 
I ever reconcile myself with God. I need a 
priest to hear me ; but before all, Mignon, I 
do not know whether I shall have strength 
enough left ; I have something to tell you.” 

“ Tell it, mother,” said Mignon, “ you know 
1 have forgotten all the past.” 

“ Have you forgotten a letter ? — ^but no — I 
cannot go on ” 

“ Speak — speak quickly, mother,” said Mig- 
non ; “ it will do 3^011 good.” 

“ Have you forgotten,” continued Madame 
Orevecceur, with an effort ; “ have you forgot- 
ten having seen once a printed letter announc- 
ing a marriage? Well, I have learned since 
—I have heard it was a false report. But 
you, Mignon, do you know it ? Do you know 
that Maurice de Terrenoire is not married ? 
You are surely too proud to ask about it. Do 
you also know ” 

Here she stopped, exhausted by this avowal 
that had cost her such an effort ; but Mignon 
could not have heard more ; she was herself 


MIGNON. 


175 


entirely shaken by an announcement which 
could make such a change in her resolutions ; 
and she, perhaps, felt more joy through these 
few words than she had endured suffering 
since her father’s death. 

“ Do you also know that he loves you ?” re- 
sumed Madame Crevecoeur, in a fainter voice, 
after a long pause ; ‘‘ yes, I have known that 
he loves you for a very long time ; your large 
fortune is the cause of his silence. I know all 
that, Mignon. And how many times I have 
wished to tell you of it since you have been 
watching me like a devoted daughter ! I am 
much changed, and already feel myself com- 
forted by this avowal. I would like to see you 
happy. See here, this portrait, how many 
times I have held it in my hand to give it up 
to you — for it is really yours ! I do not know 
what false shame prevented me ! But I must 
soon appear before Him who sees all our ac- 
tions. If you forgive me, so will He also. 
You don’t say anything, Mignon. If you only 
would give me a good word.” 

But Mignon could say nothing ! She ad- 
mired in silence how her sweetest consolation 
came from her who had made her suffer most, 
and she thought of these words she had read 


176 


MIGNON. 


in the Bible that morning : “ The honey has 
been found in the jaws of the lion.” 

“ I promise yon,” said Mignon, finally, tak- 
ing the portrait of Maurice, “ I promise you, 
mother, that your children shall be our own.” 

“ Dear angel, you have divined my wishes,” 
said the exhausted sick woman. “ It is what 
I expected from two hearts like yours ; yes, 1 
can die now !” 

“ No,” said Mignon, “ you will live to love 
these dear children with us ; but now, you 
must repose yourself.” 

And she arranged everything for the night, 
which was setting in. Her service was gentle 
and noiseless. She spoke gently, walked 
softly, and only made her presence felt when 
it was wanted. 

Madame Crevecoeur was exhausted by 
the fatigue of this scene; but at the same time 
her conscience was relieved by the confession 
of the truth, which had to be told sooner or 
later. The night was a little calmer ; and as- 
siduous care restored her slowly. We have 
seen Selfishness, which kills; behold Love, 
which saves ! 

Mignon, notwithstanding her prolonged 
watchings, kept a serene countenance. She 


MIGNOlir. 


177 


sometimes wrote to her dear Graziella, and 
lived on the past and the future. She had 
also, perhaps, at the bottom of her heart a se 
cret joy which more than compensated for all 
her trials. 


XII. 

THE BENGAL FIRE. 

How beautiful is the calmness which succeeds 
tlie tumultuous thunder of the storm, when 
the gigantic bow of seven colors spans the fir- 
mament!^ It is a solemn moment. Nature 
then seems to recollect herself; slie has not 
yet dried her tears ; all around is hushed ; 
nought is heard but the heavy drops which 
drip from the branches surcharged with rain, 
like the pearls of a jeweled casket ; like the 
tears that trickle on the cheek of an already 
consoled child. Then, at the first smile of na- 
ture, all these liquid pearls mount up to 
heaven in a light vapor, as a pure incense. 

How beautiful is the silence which follows 
great suffering, when appears the radiant prism 


178 


MIGNON. 


of hope. Then the heart seems to recollect it- 
self, and almost enjoys the remembrance of 
its grief. Nothing seems bitter to it ; its 
tears even are sweet, and at the first smile 
these tears mount up to heaven as a hymn of 
praise — as a prayer — as a pure incense. 

She was, therefore, silent and thoughtful, 
the gentle Mignon, when calm again was felt 
in her father’s house ; when the con valescence 
of her stepmother gave her the double joy of 
a mitigated suffering, and a hardened heart 
subdued by love. She began to think and 
meditate ; she desired nothing — expected no- 
thing — for she knew all she wished to know. 

She had not yet seen Maurice ; occupied 
with her pious duties of Sister of Charity, she 
would have preferred to receive no one ; but 
Mr. Renard, who had the entree of the house, 
and who always found some excuse for com- 
ing there, gave her to understand that Mau- 
rice was very much hurt at the position she 
had taken, and that he could not be consoled 
at her determination to remain in the convent. 
She also learned that the health of Maurice 
was affected, and that he intended to leave 
Paris on that account. 

One day she received a letter from Maurice, 
which ran as follows : 


MIGNON. 


179 


“ Mt Dear Cousin : — I have been informed 
of the happy change that yonr presence has 
produced in your stepmother’s house. You 
have accomplished a noble duty, and I ex- 
pected no less from your kind heart. I thus 
see a double refuge assured you : either the 
convent, which, to my great regret, you ap- 
pear to prefer to a worldly existence, or else 
the house of your stepmother, where your 
presence has become so necessary. If you 
need my assistance, my life is at your dispo- 
sal ; but, reassured for your future, and see- 
ing you sheltered from the dangers whicli 
threatened you, I now take leave of you, Mig- 
non. 

“ A malady, from which I have suflered 
since my return to Paris, obliges me to leave. 
But, far from you or near you, I will watch 
over you. If. my presence is ever necessary, 
you have only to address me a line through 
Mr. Kenard, wlio will always know my where- 
abouts. I have consulted with him for all that 
concerns you, and I could not place in better 
hands the titles of which I was the recipient. 
You will receive from him all the information 
relative to your property ; he is a friend on 
whom you can roly on myself. 


180 


MIGNON. 


“ Adieu, Mignon ; think sometimes of your 
friend, 

“Maurice de Terrenoire.” 

Mignon had then a very hard heart, for she 
read this letter, smiling, beneath the bower of 
roses in the garden of the house, while watch- 
ing her two little sisters. She saw depart the 
only friend that was left her, knowing at the 
same time he was sick ; all that he had writ- 
ten was in a sad, discouraging strain. Nothing 
then touched in this letter? nothing? 

What Mignon, perhaps, knew, was that she 
had only a word to say to change all these 
grand resolutions. She had understood every- 
thing. A thousand circumstances which for- 
merly appeared so insignificant to her, fully 
explained themselves, now that she was on 
the right track, through the tardy confession 
of Madame Crevecoeur. 

Had not the voice of Maurice trembled 
when he addressed the first words in the con- 
vent parlor? He had made a strong eflfort 
over himself, but he could not hide his emo- 
tion. Had his look not said more than his 
voice ? Had not his hand, which could not 
let go that of Mignon, spoken as well as his 


MIGNON. 


181 


look and voice ? She knew now why the poor 
boy would not explain himself ; it was because 
Mignon was too rich. 

She smiled, therefore, because she had kept 
her secret, while her adversary had betrayed 
his, and taking up her pen with the assurance 
of the enemy when he is able to dictate terms 
to the vanquished, she wrote : 

“ In your note, Maurice, I read but one 
line : ‘ If my presenoe is ever necessary^ you 
have only to address me a line^ I need you, 
Maurice, and call upon you in my father’s 
name. Before your departure, I beg that you 
will grant me a few moments’ interview. Be- 
lieve in all the affection of your devoted 

“ Mignon.” 

Maurice did not wait to be called twice. 
Mignon needed him. How this word pleased 
him ! To serve and obey her was the life he 
had dreamed of. His sensitiveness was so ex- 
cessive and susceptible, that he particularly 
avoided all eagerness. It seemed to him as 
if it would be seeking, in the eyes of the 
world, for this fortune which he detested from 
the bottom of his heart. So he hid his feelings 
beneath a cold exterior that he fancied well 
imitated. 


182 


MIGNON. 


Mr. Keiiard, who had pretensions to great 
penetration, thought he also divined his secret, 
and would have liked nothing better than to 
play an officious part in the grand final 
scene he had so often imagined. It seemed 
to this worthy man, a friend of both parties, 
that they were well matched ; for, while Mig- 
non brought her grace, beauty and fortune, 
Maurice, on his side, had his honorable posi- 
tion, his merit, his brilliant prospects, and, 
above all, his precious heart. He was the 
tried and disinterested man to whom Creve- 
coeur had chosen to confide Theresa. This 
difference of age was just enough to justify 
the authority of the head of a family. 

The lawyer would have, therefore, di’awn 
up the contract with equal advantage on all 
sides ; but Maurice had moderated his zeal, 
and begged him to think no more about it, 
pretending that he himself had other plans. 

Maurice thus thought himself very clever, 
and it was with a countenance of steel that he 
presented himself at the Crevecoeur house, 
where Mignon received him under the garden 
bower. • 

“ First embrace my little sisters,” said she ; 
“ how do you find them 


MIGNON. 


183 


“ Why, Mignon,” said Maurice, taking her 
hand, are these laughing little children your 
sisters! From the account of Mr. Renard, I 
thought them less pretty. They are really very 
interesting !” 

And the children gently held up their thces 
to be kissed. 

“ Run and play, my dears,” said Mignon, 
“ and make no noise — mamma is sleeping.” 

The children ran off, putting their fingers to 
their lips. 

You see, I am made to bring up Kttle 
children — why change my vocation ? I have 
made my apprenticeship with Graziella, dear 
little demon ; she has given me sometimes 
trouble enough ; but really, I can no longer 
do without her ; I miss her every day. What 
a good child she is now ! You must go and 
see her, Maurice, before you go, for she be- 
longs to us both. 

“ But, first, I wish to speak with you on 
more serious business. I must tell you that 
ray stepmother has become quite reasonable. 
Does that astonish you ? She wants to change 
her manner of living, and renounce all that 
has nearly proven her ruin. I often talk with 
her about her plans. She has written such 


184 


MIGNON. 


sensible letters to her family, that they have 
forgotten her conduct. She would like to es- 
tablish herself in her country seat in JS^or- 
mandy, to be near her father ; is it not wise ? 
What could she do here ? She will take these 
two little ones here with her, and leave the 
larger ones at the Augustinians for the pres- 
ent. For she relies on you, Maurice ; she 
knows what my father thought of you. As 
for myself, I am a rather good nurse ; I know 
how to keep house, but that is all. Will you 
help me ? It is the first service I ask of you. 
You have a great deal of experience, and be- 
sides, our affairs are far from hopeless — they 
only want putting in order. If you desire it, 
Maurice, we will have the pleasure of attend- 
ing together to the same duties, will we 
not?” 

“ What happiness,” said Maurice, offering 
her his hand; “lam then able to do some- 
thing for you — to help and second you in your 
good and generous intentions. Thank you, 
Mignon, for having relied on me. You know 
I only live to serve you. Thanh you, Mig- 
non — it is the only word I can use ; you will 
see whether we shall succeed; I shall work 
with such zeal !” 


MIGNON’. 


185 


“ But jour health,” said Mignon, pointedly, 
“ jour voyage ?” 

“ Oh ! I feel better already,” said Maurice, 
“ and occupying myself with what interests 
you, is the very thing that will finish my 
cure.” 

“ I knew you would say that, Maurice ; you 
can tell me nothing new, and I know what 
you will say next. I know the friend that 
my father has left me ; but how many things 
we have yet to talk about ! Is it not nice to 
chat here in the shade, and to look after the 
happiness of others ! Let us see ! Our little 
Graziella, what shall we do with her?” said 
she, drawing her chair nearer ; “ she is an ar- 
tist, heart and soul. You will see . her pro- 
ductions. I recommend to you especially the 
Virgin Mary in the garden. Ask to see it, 
and tell me who it looks like.” 

“ Ah ! for Graziella,” said Maurice, “ I had 
imagined something very pleasant. I was so 
lonely in Florence ! I had so much time to 
think ! and I represented to myself — but to 
what purpose ? If you are going back to the 
convent, what shall I do ?” 

“ Have you not already changed your mind 
about your voyage, Maurice? Who knows 


186 


MIGNON. 


but what I may do the same some day ? i 
know nothing about it as yet. Let us talk 
on about Graziella.” 

“Well,’’ said Maurice, “you can imagine 
it was a great pleasure for me to learn at 
Florence that she had such aptitude. When 
she was very young, her father already 
thought of making her an artist. ‘ How well 
Providence seconds all my plans !’ said I, and 
this Providence is you. To provide her with 
some support, and avoid a complete ruin, I 
have preserved the studio of her father ; and 
when I heard that you were for her like a 
young and tender mother, I said to myself : 

‘ They will, perhaps, have the happiness of 
not separating from each other afterwards, 
and then ’ ” 

“ And why do you stop, Maurice, in the 
midst of such a nice oration ?” 

“ And then,” continued Maurice, with some 
embarrassment, “ I had already bought, in 
your name and by precaution, the house where 
Marx’s studio is, for it has a good situation, 
and I thought it would suit you ; and I saw 
you, in my imagination, installed in this pretty 
house, with Graziella near you, finishing her 
sketches, and you aiding her to profit by them, so 


MIGNON. 


187 


j j that her pride might be spared, and she have 
the satisfaction of supporting herself, and not 
be dependent on others. Is it not so, Mignon 
I-, — would not Graziella have loved to live with 
^ you thus 

“ Really,” said Mignon, “ the idea is excel- 
lent, and — is that all yon fancied, Maurice 
“I did not dare go any farther,” said Mau- 
rice, blushing; “ I said to myself” 

“Well, go on; do you wish me to speak 
for you? I know what you said to yourself — 
^ you often thought of my good father and his 
’ child — ^is it not true ? and you said : ‘ I know 
very well to whom I will confide her, so that 
she may be happy, for she cannot remain in 
the convent ; it is not proven that she is a 
Saint Therese. T will give her to some one 

who will love and cherish her.’ ” 

“ Oh ! Mignon,” interrupted Maurice, 
“ have I ever, in my words or in my let- 
ters” — ^ 

“ And what are letters and words, Maurice, 
if the rest of your conduct spoke so plainly ? 
But let me continue — if I go wrong, are you 
not here to reply to me? You further said to 
yourself: ‘ I would give her to Maurice de 
Terrenoire, for she is neither bad looking nor 


188 


MIGNON. 


ill-natnred, and for the sake of her father’s 
memory alone, she will do all that I tell her ; 
but there is one great impediment, and that 
is — ^Mignon is rich.’ ” 

“ Pity, Mignon, I beg of you.” 

“ I^o, Maurice ; no pity ! Let me at least 
finish my soliloquy, and you can speak after- 
wards. Maurice, therefore, said to himself, 
to conclude : ‘ As she is too rich, I will never 
say what I think of her — I will never say that, 
from the day her father confided her to my 
care, I have had no happier dream than that 
of uniting forever the daughter and best friend 
of Aime Crevecceur. She shall never know 
it ; she may become what she likes ; she can 
stay in her convent, or she may marry no 
matter whom ; but at least it will be proven 
that I, Maurice, am a disinterested man.’ Is 
there no truth in that ? say !” 

Maurice bowed his head like a culprit, tak- 
ing the hands of Mignon; but how sweet 
these reproaches were to him ! With what 
avidity he listened to the fairy of his future ! 

“ Pardon,” said he, “ pardon !” 

“ Perhaps so, if that were all,” said Mignon , 
“ but there is another thing which I will fina 
it very difficult to pardon.” 


MIGNON. 


189 


“And what, pray,” said Maurice, anxiously, 
“ am I not yet worthy of your friendship ?” 

“ What I will not pardon you, Maurice, is 
— is not helping and encouraging me a little. 
It is leaving me to get through with my un- 
dertaking the best way I can. I believe things 
are not done in this way in the world ; but I, 
Maurice, do not know the world ; I only 
know your heart and mine, and I rise up to 
tell you! 

“ Maurice, kind friend of my father, gentle 
brother to whom he has confided me, do you 
wish me to give you my entire life ? It is 
yours ; we will pass our days cherishing the 
memory of him we love, and we will do in his 
name all the good he liked to do himself.” 

Mignon stood up ; she was majestic and 
beautiful thus. Maurice, admiring this Bibli- 
cal calmness and simplicity, had knelt before 
her without knowing it, and kissed the folds 
of her dress. 

“ That, sir, is what you force me to tell 
you,” said Mignon, seriously ; “ do you think 
it is easy ?” 

“ What, Mignon,” said Maurice, in ecstacy, 
“ you, who with your beauty, your youth and 
your fortune, have only to choose ; you who 


190 


MIGNON. 


have only to appear, in order to charm, do 
yon lovem^f Oh, it was indeed necessary 
for you to tell me of it ; could I hope for this, 
I, who can only give you in exchange my de- 
votion and my life ?” 

“Well, is that not everything, Maurice? 
Youth will pass; what you call my beauty 
will not, perhaps, last as long as my youth. 
All will pass except our souvenirs and our 
friendship.. As for the fortune, if you find my 
bark too heavily laden to steer, you can do as 
the sailors do, you can throw a part of the 
cargo into the sea. Have we not Graziella ? 
Have we not my little sisters, who will give 
us occupation, perhaps, for a long time to 
come ? And the poor, Maurice, and the af- 
flicted. How much good we can do! Re- 
member Aime Crevecoeur, and you will no 
longer be embarrassed with the post of stew- 
ard, or master of my fortune. What happi- 
ness for me to consult you ! And you, Mau- 
rice, will you not be a little happy to serve 
me as guide ?” 

“ Enough, Mignon, enough, my child ; let 
me calm myself ; have pity on my happiness. 
I am already so happy with all your plans, 
let me. enjoy my hope! Do not give me 


MIGNON. 191 

everything at once. Wait and reflect once 
more !” 

“ And do yon think I would speak rashly 
on so grave a subject ? Do you take me for a 
child, Maurice? Have I not sufiered enough 
to have time to reflect ? Misfortune is a good 
adviser. I expect nothing from the world. 
You alone, my friend, have consoled me for 
what I have seen of it. And why do you 
place yourself so low ? Have you not esteem, 
consideration, merit, an honorable position, 
and the hop>e of a brilliant future, which you 
will obtain by your labors ? You must not 
doubt yourself, Maurice ! And besides, if 
you will not ask for Mignon, it is Mignon who 
gives herself to you. Will you leave her with- 
out protection ?” 

“ Dear Mignon,” said Maurice, finally con- 
quered in his last scruples, and overcome with 
joy, “ I now know why I shall live ! Come, 
your father must hear us ; be my beloved and 
respected wife ; be the good angel of our dwel- 
ling !” 

“It is not without some difficulty,” said 
Mignon, surrendering him her two hands with 
a charming grace. “ Do you know that things 
are not done in this way in the novels I have 


192 


MIGNON. 


read ! You should court me, and pay me a 
thousand little attentions ; I should not un- 
derstand you; should offer a passive resist- 
ance, and make you beg a long time. But 
what can be done with a grave engineer, who 
says nothing of what he thinks, and from 
whom you must extract his secrets ? Thank 
me at least for having invented the denoue- 
menty 

The rest of the conversation began to be of 
a more tender nature, under the garden bower, 
when Mr. Benard suddenly appeared before 
them. 

“ My dear Maurice,” said the lawyer, “ if 
you leave to-morrow, I have still many things 
to tell you ; you forget yourself here, and I 
am not surprised at it.” 

“ I remain here,” said Maurice, seriously. 

‘‘That is good news,” said the lawyer; 
“ but when I implored you to remain, you 
told me it was impossible. Have you been 
furnished with any better reasons than my 
own ?” 

And he looked at Mignon. 

‘‘ Aprojpos,'*' said he, “Mademoiselle will 
have the goodness to give me an audience be- 
fore returning to the convent, for I must give 
her some information about her affairs.” 


MTGNOir. 193 

I remain here,” said Mignon, imitating 
the tone of Maurice. 

‘‘ There is something new going on here,” 
replied Mr. Renard, scrutinizing them both ; 
‘‘ you have each of you such a happy and 
busy air ! I really am afraid of intruding.” 

“ ]SPo, my dear friend,” said Maurice ; “ we 
need you now more than ever.” 

“ If, by chance, it is for a contract,” resumed 
the lawyer, after having looked at them alter- 
nately, “you will learn that it has been drawn 
up long since. Eh, my children, I knew how 
it would all wind up ; and I assumed the re- 
sponsibility. I will bet you will not have a 
line of it to alter.” 

They had to separate. How many things 
M aurice had to do I They multiplied at each 
moment. He occupied liimself attentively 
with the Crevecoeur’s business ; he went to 
see little Graziella ; he kept the good Supe- 
rior informed o^‘ the great events about to hap- 
pen ; he arranged with solicitude the new 
Jiome, of Mignon ; everything progressed at 
once. 

So that one day Madame Crevecoeur, still 
weak and convalescent, was able to leave for 
Normandy, with her two youngest children, 


194 


MIGNOU. 


and live near her family, in an affluence se- 
cured her by the intelligent care of Maurice. 
Slie was much changed by suffering, and had 
become another woman. She ever preserved 
the liveliest gratitude for the gentle Mignon, 
who had melted the ice of this hardened heart, 
and she left, at her request, the two oldest 
children to be educated at the Augustin- 
ians. 

Mignon was very much rejoiced at telling 
her dear Superior, Madame Theresa, of the 
happy events which were taking place, and in 
receiving her maternal embrace and benedic- 
tion. Then she descended the garden steps, 
which recalled her first arrival in this sweet 
refuge. 

There was a general rejoicing in the Con- 
vent of the Augustinians, when she, who was 
called the good angel of the house, returned. 
She walked for a long time beneath the old 
plantains ; she led by the hand her two little 
sisters, to whom she gave many instructions. 
Graziella skipped before her with admiration, 
clapping her hands, and expressing by her 
happy countenance all that was denied her in 
speech ; all the young pupils surrounded her, 
manifesting their friendship by bringing her 


MIGNON. 


195 


the most beautiful flowers of their garden. 
On seeing the satisfaction of all these young 
hearts, she really had not the courage to tell 
her companions that she had come to take 
leave of them. 

Good-bye is always so sad a word to say ! 
When the good Superior had explained that 
Mignon was no longer of an age to remain in 
the convent, and that she was going to enter 
the world, as they would all do in their turn, 
it was really a touching scene ; all the expres- 
sive faces saddened, and gentle Mignon put 
her hands to her eyes to keep back the tears. 
Suddenly she felt two small arms that hugged 
her tightly. It was poor Graziella, miserable 
and bathed in tears, who gazed at her with 
sorrowful and supplicating eyes. All this said 
as plainly as words : 

“And I, Mignon, dear friend, what will 
become of me? You, who have loved me so 
well, do you intend to leave me here alone ? 
Alone ! and who will love me now ? Who 
will take an interest in me ? Who will look 
at my work ? And I love you so much ! Can 
1 live without my mother 

How well her eyes expressed all she would 
say 1 How well friendship can speak, even 


190 


MIGNON. 


without a voice ! And she took the hand of 
Mignon, and put it on her heart, as if to say : 
“ Do yon understand 

‘‘Yes,” cried Mignon, ‘‘yes, Graziella, I 
understand it all. You cannot live without 
me I know. Come, dear child, I am your 
mother, and you will not be separated from 
me ; has not misfortune been the link that 
united us ? Come, we are going togeiherP 

On hearing these last words, Graziella gave 
a loud cry, and wept more than ever, but with 
what sweet and joyful tears ! They relieved 
this poor little heart. A holier and more ex- 
pansive joy succeeded ; she embraced the Su- 
perior, as if to ask pardon for wishing to leave 
her, and pointed to Mignon as an excuse. 

“Go, poor child,” said the Superior, kissing 
her on the forehead ; “ follow your gentle mo- 
ther! Love her well, and God will bless 
you.” 

Graziella wanted to embrace the whole es- 
tablishment ; she then rushed to her studio to 
carry off her tools and models, but everything 
was already packed up in a box, and her bag- 
gage had been prepared beforehand. 

Mignon distributed several little keepsakes 
to her companions, forgetting no one. She 


MIGNOU. 


197 


promised to return and see them often, re- 
commending to them her sisters, who had for 
mothers her two best friends. 

As she ascended the last step of the garden 
piazza, she heard a little voice calling her. 
She smiled, and turned round. It was the 
pretty parroquet which climbed towards her, 
stretching out his wings, and still repeating : 

“ Mignon ! Mignon !” 

“ Poor little bird !” said the maiden, touched 
in spite of herself with a little incident which 
recalled her past ; “ what ! you have not yet 
forgotten the name which you gave me ? And 
it is you that repeat it on my departure, as 
you repeated it the day I first entered here ! 
Do not forget it, little bird, when I am gone, 
so that my companions may sometimes re- 
member the Mignon who is so happy to-day.” 

And she kissed the pretty head of the at- 
tentive bird that listened to this harmonious 
voice, and appeared to understand these 
friendly words. 

Finally, escorted by the entire household, 
and holding Graziella by the hand, she 
crossed for the last time the threshold of the 
Convent of the Augustinians, not without ef- 
fort, and not without returning many times 
to bid a last farewell. 


198 


MIGNON. 


In passing, she offered her hand to the old 
portress, wlio was w^aiting for her at the door, 
and who said, on seeing her get into the car- 
riage : 

‘‘There is a little angel that takes its 
flight !” 

A few days after, Maurice and Mignon, 
holding Graziella by the hand, entered to- 
wards evening a charming house in the Rue 
de V Quest. This is the quarter preferred by 
artists ; it is there that the studio of Marx is 
preserved, like a mausoleum, by the piety of 
Maurice ; the house is of brick, and adorned 
with a terrace. It is extremely picturesque 
in the midst of the bouquet of trees which sur- 
round it. Its large windows appear to look 
with curious eye on the landscape beyond. 
An immense grating, which belongs to the 
Luxembourg, permits the gaze to plunge into 
the fresh foliage of the seed plot; everything 
charms the eye ; nothing offends it. 

On the other side of the Luxembourg, large 
tracts of verdure bound the horizon, and above 
the trees but three monuments are seen — three 
temples of the Lord : Saint Genevieve, Saint 
James, and the Yal-de-Grace, which poiut 
their golden crosses towards heaven. 


MIGNON. 


199 


Graziella had grown, and was nearly fifteen 
years old ; she gazed around with great curi- 
osity ; she was so happy! She knew she 
would never leave her kind Mignon, and fol- 
lowed her about everywhere ; her gestures 
were so expressive that one hardly perceived 
her want of speech. 

When one of the windows on the second 
floor was opened; when the child saw the 
thick foliage, the well known alleys, and on 
the horizon the three golden crosses, she threw 
herself into the arms of Mignon with a loud 
cry ; she drew Mignon to the window, and, 
showing her the steeple of Saint James, she 
repeated with increasing vivacity : 

Mother 1 Mother 1” 

It was the church where she had made her 
first communion, and where her mother had 
been carried for the last time.. 

When Maurice entered, she ran to him, then 
suddenly stopped, put her hand to her fore- 
head, as if she were seeking some word, and 
finally exclaimed, with an air of sufiering: 

“ Hoicse / my mother’s house 

As if, according to the order of her ideas, 
after the sacred name o mother, the sweet 
name of home, of the domestic hearthstone. 


200 


MIGNON. 


was that which came the most easily and the 
most naturally upon her lips. Mignon held 
her dear child on her heart, and wiped away 
her tears. Maurice was deeply impressed; 
he watched with a sort of terror this struggle 
between nature and affection. Suddenly, an 
idea presented itself to his mind ; he some- 
what feared the responsibility of what he was 
about to do, but at the time hoped some re- 
sult from a shock, and proceeded forthwith to 
execute his plan. 

“ Come, come !” said he, dragging Mignon 
and Graziella after him, and making them 
rapidly descend the stairs. 

He opened a large door on the ground floor, 
took one hand of Graziella, while Mignon held 
the other of the trembling child. The room 
was nearly completely dark ; one could scarcely 
distinguish here and there some white phan- 
toms. 

“Let in the light,” said he to a servant, 
who was awaiting this order. 

In a moment the large blinds were thrown 
open, and a torrent of light streamed into the 
studio of Marx. The scream that the poor 
child gave forth cannot be described. Her 
arms were stretched towards the ravishino- 

o 


MTaNON. 201 

statue of Graziella, which shone in all its 
splendor from its high pedestal. 

‘‘ Graziella! Graziella murmured she. 

Then, as if feeling herself animated with re- 
newed strength, she dropped the hands which 
supported her, and advanced gravely and 
alone to the foot of the statue. 

This is the studio of my father,” said she, 
in a clear voice; and she seemed to listen with 
astonishment to the words which issued from 
her mouth and resounded through the lofty 
apartment. 

“And here — here is the chamber of my mo- 
ther.” 

And she sprang forward to enter, but sud- 
denly stopped, as if seized by a misgiving. 

Maurice and Mignon took her by the hand. 

“Dear child, dear little thing,” said Mig- 
non, “ it is we who are now your father and 
mother ; you are in your own studio ; all this 
is jmurs ; 3^11 will never leave us, and will 
speak to us now. We will be happy together 
in remembering those that we have loved and 
lost. Come, speak to us again! Your voice 
does me good !” 

Graziella, smiling, and as if in ecstacy, re- 
fleeted for a moment, looked around and be- 


202 


MIGNON. 


held all these works of art so familiar to her, 
then, throwing herself into the arms of Mig- 
non, she murmured in a faint voice : 

‘‘ My father, my mother, how I will love 
you !” 

Then, holding out her hand to Maurice, she 
sank, exhausted, on a sofa. 

******* 

The setting sun gilded with his last rays 
the three golden crosses which stood out 
against the blue ether, and appeared like cher- 
ished souls which showed themselves once 
more to the living. 

Yes, the soul of Crevecoeur was indeed there 
between Maurice and Mignon, hand in hand. 

And Graziella had also near her the souls 
of her father and mother. 

And at the close of day, these consoled 
spirits seemed to illuminate with a soft light 
this scene so delicious to their hearts, as the 
Bengal fire lights up with its fantastic glow 
the last tableaux of a fairy pageant. 


THE END, 


. 15 ^. rrv? 


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